


A Royal Arrangement

by arthureameslove



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Eventual Adventure, Fluff, Frerin ships it, Insomnia, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Bilbo, Oblivious Thorin, PTSD Thorin, Ring centric plot, Romance, Royal Bagginses, Shire Monarchy, Skewed Middle Earth Geography, Technically slow burn, Timeline What Timeline, but don't worry we'll get there, much sass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:19:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 73,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5092265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthureameslove/pseuds/arthureameslove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin frowned. His father's tone was ominous and weary, so much so that it seemed to worry even Frerin. "So you see, this merger," Thraín continued, "will require a true diplomatic union. Marriage."</p><p>Thorin choked on air for a moment and Frerin's green eyes widened. "M-marriage?" Frerin mumbled weakly.</p><p>***</p><p>King Thraín of Erebor is forced to make a political agreement with the Shire in order to ensure his people have access to a bountiful harvest following the devastation of the Fell Winter. Thorin and Frerin travel to the Shire to certify the agreement, against their own wishes. Bilbo and Thorin discover they each have troubles all their own. </p><p>They help each other cope.</p><p>This is the story of the unlikely match between Prince Bilbo Baggins of the Shire and Prince Thorin II of Erebor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Unexpected Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so I actually posted this story a while ago, but due to unforeseen actions of stupidity (i.e. me being frustrated and trying to delete a chapter) I ended up deleting the entire thing. I never got back to it--life just got in the way, as it normally does. *shakes fist angrily* But last night I woke up and I thought to myself, how about it. Let's give it another shot. The first five chapters I have mostly done and almost edited already, so hopefully, for the first few chapters at least, I can post in quick succession and start out on a good note. ;)  
> ***  
> In order to make this story work, I have moved the location of the Shire. In this fic it just so happens to be directly south of Erebor and EAST of Greenwood (aka Mirkwood before it went all scary creepy). If this doesn't tickle your fancy or if you are vehemently opposed to such a change from canon, I apologize. I have also played around with the ages of the characters. Fíli and Kíli are dwarflings, I envision them in their 30s or so, Thorin is about 110 or so (Dwalin being about the same as well), and Frerin about 80. The other dwarrows are simply the ages they were in the book, which were presumably the same as those in the movies. Bilbo also is younger than he was in canon, being 35 years of age and still quite young (though still a grown hobbit) given hobbit standards. Thanks, and hope you enjoy.

The query from the Kingdom of the Shire was utterly unexpected, and yet, not unwelcome at all. The message was brought in the form of a letter, rushed to the gates of Erebor in the moments before dawn by a particularly ragged looking hobbit. Balin, son of Fundin and Royal Advisor to the King, had been the first to intercept it. "From... from his royal... highness, King Bungo Baggins, sir, to King Thrain of The Lonely Mountain," the young halfling panted through great heaving breaths.  
  
Balin accepted the letter with a grateful smile and a raised eyebrow. "Well met, Mister..."  
  
"Greenhand. Theodoric Greenhand."  
  
"Aye, Mister Greenhand. I'll make sure his Majesty receives this promptly."  
  
The Greenhand lad gave a quick nod and, with a resigned look, turned back to the road. Balin glanced at the gates and then to the boy's retreating figure. Curiosity and sympathy won out over haste, and he called out, "would you like a pony to borrow, lad?"  
  
Greenhand turned around abruptly with look of surprise on his young face which quickly faded to resignation. "Nay, Master Dwarf. I'm afraid I cannot accept. Left my pony down in Dale. I was awfully saddle sore you see, and I thought I could make do to Erebor on foot."  
  
The boy looked as though he was regretting his decision very much, judging by the way his face twisted. Balin suppressed a chuckle, as he was certain such a reaction would not be appreciated. "Had to get the letter to you by this afternoon, King Bungo told me," the boy continued, "or else he'd set Lobelia Sackville-Baggins on me for negligence!"  
  
Balin furrowed his brow. "What's a Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, lad?"  
  
Greenhand shuddered and hissed, "A right monster of a woman, sir. Why, she'd scare the hair off a warg just by storming and huffing t'wards it!"  
  
Balin laughed softly and smiled at the boy. It had been quite a while since he'd had the pleasure of a hobbit's company. "Well, I wish you a safe journey back to the Shire, Mister Greenhand. Let us hope you are not accosted by any Lobelias, regardless."  
  
Greenhand grimaced once again before he hastily bowed and murmured a, "thank you," which Balin barely caught before the halfling took off down the bridge and was swallowed by the swarms of other dwarves making their way in and out of the gates. Balin shook his head slightly, a soft smile on his face, and eyed the parcel in his hands. Aye. It was time to see his King.  
  


* * *

  
  
"Thorin! So you know what this is all about, then?"  
  
Thorin sighed and glanced up, meeting Frerin's eyes from his precarious perch on the ledge of a stone pillar. His brother was always fond of high places, and at that moment he was grinning widely with his legs swinging. "No, Frerin. I am on my way to Father's chambers to find out precisely what's going on. Now get down from there before you traumatize any more dwarrows."  
  
Frerin laughed, the sound echoing across the hall, and said, "oh, but Thorin, you just missed it. Lord Rolf—you know the one with the large nose?"

"Yes, I know who he is," Thorin muttered, long resigned to his brother's antics.

"Right, course you do, you probably know everyone's name," Frerin continued, a wide smile on his face. "Anyway, he just walked by and did not see me at first—and I thought, what an opportunity. So, I dropped down in front of him, and he was so startled that he let out a sound quite like a forge letting off steam, but slightly higher pitched. Like fine music, if I do say so myself. But never mind that."

  
In one fluid motion, Frerin jumped to the ground and landed with a crouch and a smirk. Thorin rolled his eyes. Frerin was never one for subtlety or humility. "I take it you will be joining me, then?" Thorin asked dryly.  
  
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, brother."  
  
Frerin fell into step with him as they made their way down the hallway, intricate carvings lining the walls and statues staring down at them with eyes that seemed to follow. "The entire kingdom's talking about it, you know," Frerin continued, "it's all anyone's been gossiping about. We're all curious—I mean, hobbits aren't exactly common in Erebor. People are wondering if our kingdoms will finally establish a trade route, and Mahal knows we need it."  
  
"Yes, I suppose it's a possibility. Dwalin and I actually saw the message delivered. We were up on the gate walkway during our rounds and we saw this figure sprinting through the crowd. I'll admit, it's been a very long time since I've seen a hobbit at all."  
  
"Oh, come on, Thorin!" Frerin said, snapping his fingers in front of Thorin's face, "Get excited! I know politics, negotiations, and treaties get you _excited_." He winked. "You don't have to hide it."  
  
Thorin scowled at him, but the effect was ruined by the smile tugging at his mouth. For all Frerin was irritating, Thorin couldn't imagine a life without him by his side. "Frerin, you are an utter moron."  
  
"Ah, but that's just my disguise! In truth, I am merely biding my time, waiting for the opportune moment to take the throne for myself," he replied, with a mock serious expression.  
  
Thorin punched him in the arm lightly with a huff of laughter. "I would very much like to see you try, brother. No doubt you would grow tired of all the diplomacy within the hour of your coronation and lock yourself in the kitchens."  
  
Frerin's snort of amusement echoed through the hall. "Aye, where you lack social skills, I lack motivation. What a pair we make."

"That we do," Thorin murmured, knocking on the door to his father's study.

  
Thrain's gruff voice sounded through the door, muffled but no less powerful. "Enter."  
  
Thorin glanced at his brother and pulled open the doors. His father was seated at his desk, hunched over scattered papers and mumbling to himself. "Addâd?" Thorin said, moving to his side, "you asked for me?"  
  
"Yes, yes I did," Thrain replied, scribbling something on a piece of paper.  
  
Thorin fidgeted for a moment, eyes flickering to Frerin who looked as though he was very quickly losing interest in the situation, before asking, "and why did you ask for me, exactly?"  
  
Thrain grunted and flicked a strand of hair out of his face, gaze firmly fixed on the parchment in front of him. "Impatient, aren't we? You got somewhere to be, Thorin?"  
  
"Well, I was on patrol with Dwalin."  
  
Scoffing, Thrain finally looked up and met Thorin's eyes. "And Dwalin can manage just fine on his own."  
  
Catching a glimpse of Frerin, who was opening books from the gilded shelves and flicking through them with a speed Thorin knew meant he wasn't actually reading any of it, Thrain barked, "what are you doing over there, boy? I've got something to tell you, now get over here."  
  
Frerin looked up in surprise, then shrugged and went to stand on Thrain's other side. Tapping his fingers on the desk, he asked, "So this news, whatever it is, from the Shire—is that what this is about?"  
  
Thrain raised an eyebrow before turning to Thorin. "When did he become the perceptive one, eh?"  
  
Thorin sighed and looked up, tracing the patterns on the ceiling and silently praying for the strength to deal with his family. "Addâd, please. Will you tell us what is so important?"  
  
Thrain quirked a smile and said, "Fine boys, fine. But I don't know if you'll like it."  
  
Thorin's gut twisted up a bit. "Why? Is something wrong? Has something happened in the Shire?"  
  
"Well, I suppose you could say that," Thrain muttered, looking pensive.  
  
Thorin waited a few beats in agitated silence, but his father said nothing. "Well?" Thorin asked loudly, "What is it?"  
  
"The son of King Bungo and Queen Belladonna has..."  
  
 _Died. Declared war. Made an alliance with orcs—_

  
"...come of age."  
  
Thorin blinked at his father, whose expression was stony. He looked at Frerin, wondering if this made sense to his brother, but Frerin appeared as confused as he was. "I'm... I'm sorry?"  
  
"The young prince of the Baggins family has recently come of age."  
  
Thorin huffed in exasperation. Trying to get a straight answer out of his father was far more difficult than it should be. "And? Does this... concern us?" Frerin interjected.  
  
Thrain nodded and said, "It most certainly does now. You know, of course, how we have been struggling with our crops and agriculture since the Fell Winter?"  
  
"Aye," Thorin said. "But it's not as though we're starving. As long as trade with Dale remains, we should be fine."  
  
"You forget that Dale has been affected as well. I just learned a few days ago that soon they will be unable to spare more crops for trade."  
  
"So it's true. We are entering into a trade agreement with the Shire, then?" Frerin asked excitedly.  
  
"Aye, but the thing is, the hobbits won't agree unless there's a political merger."  
  
Thorin frowned. His father's tone was ominous and weary, so much so that it seemed to worry even Frerin. "So you see, this merger," Thrain continued, "it will require a true diplomatic union. Marriage."  
  
Thorin choked on air for a moment and Frerin's green eyes widened. "M-marriage?" Frerin mumbled weakly.  
  


Thorin felt dread settle in the pit of his stomach and he grit his teeth. He had hoped that, if he ever married, it would be because he found his One. Because he wanted to. "Why? Why must marriage even come into it at all, I mean—"  
  
"Because my son," Thrain said, steepling his fingers and at his desk, "this is what the rulers of the Shire have offered. We would benefit more from their trade than they would, and you both know it. This union of our kingdoms is our best option for the continued prosperity of Erebor. King Bungo has written that we would receive a great amount of food annually in return for our comradeship and aid whenever it need be applied. Not a bad agreement, at all. But he has also requested that the union be formalized through marriage with his son and heir."  
  
Thorin closed his eyes and breathed heavily through his nose. He could feel his father's concerned gaze, as well as Frerin's, but he remained silent. His father put his hand on Thorin's and squeezed, saying softly, "now ideally, it would be to you, Thorin, that this duty would befall. Dís, of course, is excluded regardless. However, King Bungo had not specified which son it need be."  
  
Thorin snapped his eyes open and felt suddenly ill. He might be able to resign himself to a loveless marriage, but Frerin felt everything passionately. Thorin had no doubt such dismal circumstances would break something inside him.  
  
"What?!" Frerin exclaimed, face pale. "No, no, no father no, I don't want to get married—I'm barely of age as it is—"  
  


Thrain stood up suddenly. "Frerin. Control yourself."  
  
Thorin's brother snapped his jaw shut and sent a narrow eyed glare at their father, so full of animosity it made Thorin cringe. Almost immediately, Thrain seemed to deflate. His father sunk back into his seat and ran a hand through his hair. "Believe it or not my sons, I did not want this for you. I would see each of you with the person of your choosing. Seeing as how that cannot be, one of you must be married to the Prince of the Shire. I hope that one of you will grow to like the hobbit enough that you would participate willingly. I will ask King Bungo to allow you and a small company of dwarves to remain in the Shire for a number of months, during which you will be able to get to know the hobbit intended for one of you. Now, I cannot force you to marry, nor will I, but this is about our people. Your people."  
  
Frerin still looked angry, but he nodded mutely and abruptly left the room in a swirl of black and green furs. Thorin remained where he was, back ramrod straight and eyes boring holes into the wall. He couldn't hate his father for this, much as he wanted to. Thrain had even proposed time beforehand to create something of a possible friendship, at least. Thorin had the sudden, childish urge to run away, run and never look back, but he knew he could not. He could not leave Erebor in need and he could not leave his brother. Quietly, he asked, "when must we go?"  
  
Thrain looked up at him with tired eyes. "Soon. Perhaps a week."  
  
A week.  
  
"And if I were to... to marry... would I remain in the kingdom of the Shire?"  
  
His father's face fell and he said, "aye. Aye, I would believe so."  
  
Thorin hands clenched into fists and he nodded once jerkily. "If you would excuse me, father, I find the pressing need to pack," he mumbled thickly.  
  
He strode out the out door in carefully measured steps, not looking back, though his father said nothing.  
  


* * *

  
  
In the fuzzy state between consciousness and blissful slumber, Thorin found himself extremely anxious. The nameless apprehension was confusing at first—he didn't quite remember why he was feeling the way he was. A beat later, awareness came pounding through his senses in a rush of clarity and renewed dread. Thorin opened his eyes to the ceiling of his bedroom and wished, not for the first time, that he was someone else. It was the day he and Frerin would leave Erebor for a kingdom they had never seen. He couldn't help but think that it would be the last time in a long time he'd ever feel at home again.  
  
His hands clenched in the sheets of his bed and he sat upright quickly, leaving his head spinning. Thorin stumbled to his feet and to the washroom, staring at his reflection in the glass for a long time. He looked exhausted, shadows under his eyes and face pale. He tried to smile, an attempt to reassure himself somehow, but it came out cracked, more like a grimace than anything else. Thorin leaned his elbows on the counter top and pillowed his face in his arms. He didn't want to leave. His entire life had been spent in Erebor, it was so ingrained in his being that he didn't know what he would do without its golden halls. A small part of him hoped, maybe, that he could grow to like the Shire as well, that he would eventually adjust. But he didn't want to adjust, and he didn't want to adapt, because whenever he had been away from the Lonely Mountain before, traveling with his father, he had felt the loss like an ache that thrummed underneath his skin. He didn't want that pain to become a constant, something to get used to.  
  
"Thorin?" Dís' voice sounded through the door of his room, accompanied by a light knock. "Thorin, it's... it's time. Fíli and Kíli want to see you before you leave. Can we come in?"  
  
Sighing, Thorin pushed himself upright and drifted to the door, blinking through a haze. He heard frantic whispering outside the door, what sounded like Fíli's voice wavering, asking softly, "is Uncle alright?"  
  
Thorin's heart jumped to his throat and he yanked open the door immediately, crouching down to meet his nephews' gazes. He saw wide brown eyes and watery blue staring back at him, and he adopted a smile that escaped him moments before. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. You shouldn't worry about me, alright?"  
  
Both heads nodded earnestly and he looked up and met Dís' soft smile with one of his own. "Dwalin, Frerin and the others who are going with you are down in the courtyard," Dís said.  
  
Thorin nodded slowly and furrowed his brow. "I'll be right down. Did you recognize anyone in the group? My father didn't think it important enough to tell me there were others we'd be traveling with."  
  
 _And I didn't want to ask because that would be like accepting it, like giving up._  
  
Dís looked at the ground for a moment, frowning in thought. "I know Balin will accompany you as well... and I believe I saw a few dwarrows from the marketplace, but I don't know them personally."  
  
"Well I'm sure this arrangement makes sense to Addâd," Thorin sighed, "but who knows what goes on in that head of his. Too many dwarven greetings over the years have made his skull thicker, I've no doubt."  
  
Kíli laughed up at Thorin and nudged Fíli with his elbow. "We should tell Grandfather about that," Kíli said in Fíli's ear.  
  
Thorin chuckled at Fíli's pained expression. Kíli had yet to master the art of whispering. "Please do Kíli. Mahal knows he needs someone to remind him while I'm gone."  
  
At that, Kíli sobered and his face fell. Fíli ran up and wrapped his arms around Thorin with a mumbled, "we don't want you to go, Uncle. We want you to stay here with us."  
  
Thorin took a deep breath and buried his face in Fíli's hair, pressing a kiss to his head. "I know, men azaghâl. But it will not be forever, I promise. I need you to be strong for me, both of you, men namadinùdoy," he said hoarsely, meeting Kíli's wide eyes.

  
They both nodded mutely and Fíli slowly unwrapped his arms. Thorin held both his shoulders and looked at him. "Now," Thorin said quietly, clapping Fíli's shoulder and adjusting his tunic, "if your mother allows it, you may see us off as far as Dale."  
  
Smiles alighted their faces as they turned imploring gazes onto Dís, who glared at Thorin half-heartedly. After a few moments, she rolled her eyes and said, "fine. But if I hear you step one inch outside of Dale's borders, I'll have your hides, you got that?"  
  
Thorin grinned at their frantic, slightly panicked nodding, and clapped his hands together. "Well, what are you waiting for? First one to reach Dwalin in the courtyard gets to ride their own pony."  
  
Both boys were off, running and laughing before Thorin had even finished speaking. He watched until they turned the corner of the corridor before leaning on the wood of his door, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Dís put a hand on his arm and squeezed lightly. The touch was a small comfort but it could not raise his spirits. "I can have them write to you. It could be like a piece of home for you, until you come back," Dís said softly.  
  
Thorin swallowed and glanced down. He wasn't used to seeing his sister so open and unguarded. It did little to calm the bundle of nerves at the pit of his stomach, only reminding him that something was wrong. "And... you will write as well?"  
  
Dís whacked him lightly on the head and Thorin drew back with wide eyes. "Ah, what?!"  
  
Dís was looking at him like he was a special kind of idiot. "Of course I'll write, you dunderhead. I swear, I'm the only one with any sense in this family."  
  
Thorin's sharp laugh was startled out of him, and it surprised Dís as much as it did him. Something in Dís' expression softened as she put a hand on his cheek. "I expect many a tale from you when you return, Thorin. Promise?"  
  
Thorin nodded and suddenly, in all the jumbled emotions of the day, sheer gratitude welled up inside him. Because that, that promise, was something grounding him to Erebor. Something that meant he would return and that he would see Erebor's halls again. He was struck by the realization of how lucky he was, that he had people who would miss him when he was gone, people who loved him. "I promise, Dís," he said quietly, voice thick.  
  
His sister must have seen his thoughts written plainly on his face, because she drew him into a hug, pressed their bodies together, and whispered, "Thorin, you absolutely wonderful dolt, this isn't the end. This is just the start of something new. I know it may seem daunting now but, Mahal, maybe this could be a good thing. Just... remember that no matter what happens in the Shire, you're a part of this family wherever you are. Alright?"  
  
Thorin nodded emphatically against her shoulder. Perhaps Dís was right. He was stronger than this. He would enter the Shire with his head held high and face whatever fate had to throw at him. His people were built to endure, and thus, he would. Stepping back, he inclined his head at Dís. "Thank you, sister."  
  
Dís looked skyward and sighed, but Thorin saw a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. "Back to formalities, are we? Can't manage to let go of your royal aura for more than five minutes, oh no, Mahal forbid," she muttered.  
  
"Speaking of insufferable royal auras," Thorin said with a raised eyebrow, "where is your husband? I haven't warranted a goodbye from him, I see."  
  
"I left him in the yard with Frerin."  
  
"Durin's beard, Dís," Thorin hissed, "you left them alone?"  
  
Dís scoffed. "It's not as if they're dwarflings, Thorin."  
  
"No, they're much worse. Especially together."  
  
"You're overreacting."  
  
"Have you forgotten about the incident with the meat pies?"  
  
"...Maybe we should head down."  
  


* * *

  
  
Thorin, upon entering the yard, was almost immediately approached by a disheveled Balin and a particularly sour-looking Dwalin.  
  
"What kind of company is this? Scribes, toy makers? What use—"  
  
"It has come to my attention that half of the dwarrows present don't even know why they have been called—"  
  
"—more mouths to feed on the road—"  
  
"—not to mention the paperwork should one of them fail to return—"  
  
Thorin felt his headache from the morning creeping up again and he rubbed the bridge of his nose gingerly. It was hard enough to hear Dwalin and Balin whilst they complained simultaneously, let alone above the roar of the rest. He saw a dwarf with a large hat seemingly entertaining Kíli with a pipe and silly expressions, while Fíli was entranced by a dwarf with ginger hair expertly tossing around a deck of cards. There were others scattered around as well, a dwarf with intricately braided silver hair glaring sternly at everyone, a rather tall, intimidating dwarf with an axe in his head, and a small dwarf with a notebook who looked barely of age. Almost all of them were talking, most very loudly, and Thorin's head began to pound. "Enough!" he bellowed above the noise.  
  
In an instant, the company quieted, most turning to him with wide eyes. Balin and Dwalin were among those who remained unimpressed, accompanied by Frerin and Veríli snickering silently behind the crowd. He was glad to see his brother in high spirits, but less so when he was in the company of his brother-in-law. (Thorin noted, with some annoyance, that the dwarf in the oversized hat remained perpetually amused as well, though he had a sneaking suspicion it was just his default state.)  
  
Thorin met each dwarf's eyes for a moment, trying to appear a commanding presence. Dís always jokingly said that it was one of the only things he was good at. "Dwarrows of Erebor, your addition to this quest is much appreciated. Today we shall leave for the Kingdom of Shire to negotiate a trade agreement, and shall remain in King Bungo's domain for upwards of five months. We move at midday. Make yourselves ready before that time," Thorin said.  
  
Many of the company began to talk amongst themselves again, moving their hands excitedly and smiling. Only the dwarf with silver hair remained stoic and frowning. That was... a much better reaction than Thorin had anticipated. He had imagined protests at least, given that his father had called most of them without explanation. Instead, they seemed... eager? The dwarf with the hat spoke up, "well, why exactly are we needed for trade agreements? Not that I'm not flattered, mind you, your highness, but it ain't really our skill set, now is it?"  
  
Lovely. They, evidently, did not know the answer to that either. "Well, Master Dwarf—"  
  
"Bofur."  
  
Thorin raised an eyebrow, but continued, "well, Master Bofur, I'm afraid I don't know."  
  
"I do," Veríli's voice sing-songed from where he and Frerin were sprawled on the grass, watching the scene unfold.  
  
Thorin rolled his eyes and shot Dís an exasperated glance, who just gave him a small smile in return. "And what is the reason then, Veríli, and pray tell how you know it at all?" Thorin muttered.  
  
"Well," Veríli began, jumping to his feet and leisurely making his way to Thorin, "you would know if you'd actually talked to the dwarves you'll be traveling with. Did you know, for instance, that all of them, exceptin' Dwalin, Balin, and our brother dearest over there, have been to the Shire before?"  
  
Thorin blinked twice before looking at the dwarves assembled. "Is that true?"  
  
"Aye," the dwarf with the ginger hair intoned with a wink, "Bofur and I got hitched there, we did. Good and proper hobbit wedding."  
  
"Oi, come off your high horse, Nori," Bofur said with a grin, shoving the dwarf's—Nori's—arm, "I had one too many sips of that moonshine stuff and wasn't fully capable of makin' rational decisions."  
  
"And I never gave permission, I might add," the silver-haired dwarf harrumphed loudly.  
  
Nori opened his mouth to retort, but Thorin interjected, "yes, lovely, very happy for you both, but I'd like to know why you have been to the Shire before. It's not as if it's a popular spot among dwarrows."  
  
The small dwarf with the notebook stood up from the bench and said, "why, because of Gandalf of course."

  
Gandalf. Gandalf?  
  
"Gandalf the Grey? A wizard?" Thorin asked, incredulous.  
  
The small dwarf nodded, eyes wide. "Yes, sire, he—he asked us to accompany him. And the prince, course."  
  
Thorin belatedly heard the silver-haired dwarf exclaim something like, "I didn't give permission for that either," but he was focused on one word. "Prince?" he asked slowly. "The Prince of the Shire?"  
  
He could see Veríli wiggling his eyebrows suggestively by his side and steadfastly ignored him. Frerin perked up too, standing up and paying attention. The young dwarf suddenly looked nauseous with everyone's eyes on him, and Thorin saw his hands shake a bit. "Um, well, yes, we all accompanied him... he... he wished to see Rivendell."  
  
Thorin frowned and he saw Frerin mirror the action. Elrond's kin were the more bearable elves of Middle Earth, but Thorin still found them to be stifling and aggravatingly graceful. "Well, I suppose, that is the reason then," he said, shooting a glare at Veríli's expression of exaggerated shock. "My father wished to have dwarrows who were familiar to the Shire." And to its Prince.  
  
Thorin inclined his head at the young dwarf. "Thank you for enlightening us, Master..."  
  
"Ori," he choked out.  
  
"Ori," Thorin repeated with a small smile.  
  
Dwalin made a huffing noise and muttered something about scribes and libraries, prompting a sharp elbow in the stomach from Thorin. Thankfully, Ori seemed distracted by Nori. Small mercies.  
  
"Well," Balin said from his left, "I'm glad that's settled. So, none have complaints about our destination?"  
  
No one spoke up. Balin nodded, satisfied. "Alright then. If you would please make sure you have everything you need. Haste would be ideal, as we are due in the Shire in five days."  
  
Thorin sighed long and hard, watching as the dwarrows in the courtyard gathered their things and tended to their ponies. He smiled softly when he saw Dís talking to Fíli and Kíli, scrubbing dirt off their faces. Veríli clapped him on the back, jolting him out of his revere. "Well, brother... I shall not miss you."  
  
Thorin scowled at his wide grin. "The sentiment is mutual."  
  
Veríli nodded, looking pleased, and said, "I most certainly would not have it any other way."  
  
He left Thorin glaring daggers into his back as he joined Dís in helping the dwarflings mount their ponies, though he softened when he caught sight of his nephews' ecstatic expressions. Then he caught sight of Frerin balancing in a handstand on the saddle of his horse, while Nori and Bofur placed bets on how long he would last.  
  
This was going to be a long trip.


	2. Tales of Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cranking out another chapter :)  
> I can definitely say not all updates will be so close in succession, so let's consider this a happy surprise. 
> 
> Time to find out what Bilbo's up to.

"Master Bilbo! Please, your father he—he'll be very cross with me if I don't get you to your lessons on time! Please, come down!"  
  
"Shan't."  
  
Hamfast stamped his foot in irritation and crossed his arms. "Master Bilbo, sir, I don't know what's got you in such a huff, but this is just childish!" he called up.  
  
Bilbo Baggins, ignoring Hamfast for the moment, leaned against the trunk of the tree he was perched in and watched a pair of birds fluttering over a tree across the yard. From his height, he imagined he could see as far as Greenwood to the west. The wind picked up a bit, blowing his bangs into his eyes and obscuring his vision, and Bilbo thought it was horribly symbolic somehow. "Master Bilbo, per'aps if you tell me what's troubling you, it'll help some?"  
  
Bilbo sucked in a small laugh through the tightness of his chest. Hamfast was the closest thing he had to a best friend and Bilbo was immeasurably grateful that he had him. He glanced down and met Hamfast's earnest expression with a wry twist of his lips. "I'm getting married."  
  
He heard Hamfast's faint inhale of surprise. "Why, Master Bilbo! I'll admit, it seems a tad out of the blue... but no wonder you're fretting so! When my wife and I were plannin' ours, it was a might stressful, if I do say so. Who's the lucky hobbit?"  
  
"It's a dwarf."  
  
There was a long, heavy silence, so long in fact that Bilbo half believed Hamfast had up and left. Stomach twisting at the thought, he risked a quick glance downward and saw, with a quick breath of relief, Hamfast looking back with a grave frown on his face. "I've heard gossip of dwarves of the Lonely Mountain. Is that what this is about, Bilbo?"  
  
Bilbo sucked in a ragged breath. Feeling a bit off balance, he began to climb down with shaky limbs. Landing on his feet, he met Hamfast's eyes. "Yes, Hamfast, as a matter of fact it is. My father has apparently seen fit to tie me permanently to the Shire by way of marriage to a dwarf of Erebor. Apparently, my betrothed is due from the mountain in a few days, and my father thought it would be in my best interest to let me know only this morning. He couldn't even tell me himself! He sent a messenger."  
  
Glancing to his right, he spotted two young hobbits racing into a thicket of trees, whooping and laughing. "I'm so tired of this, Hamfast. Maybe... maybe I can travel somewhere for a few days... maybe it'll help."  
  
Hamfast paled and shook his head. "Master Bilbo, I'm sorry you're unhappy, truly I am. But I really, really don't think you should be leaving again."  
  
Bilbo's mood soured with his Hamfast's words. He never really thought Hamfast would agree, but he didn't need to be lectured at like some unruly fauntling. Rolling his eyes, Bilbo threw his hands up in the air and began to walk to the market down by Took Hall, saying, "I can't be bothered at the moment, anyway. Please, give my father my regards."  
  
He hoped he could find something at the market to pacify his disquiet, a book or a map. Anything to distract him from the fact that he was already promised to someone he did not know and bound for an eternity of court life and dinner parties and false smiles.  
  
Hamfast scrambled to his side, frown on his face deep and prominent. "Master Bilbo, you're going the wrong way."  
  
"I can assure you, Hamfast, that is not an accidental occurrence."  
  
With a noise of exasperation, Hamfast stepped straight into Bilbo's path. Bilbo stumbled and came to a stop. Placing his hands on his hips, he grit out, "get out of my way."  
  
"Do remember how distraught your parents were when you went off with that Gandalf fellow and didn't come back for six months? Six months, Bilbo. If you leave again, it'll break their hearts. Do you want that?" Hamfast said, expression uncharacteristically stony.  
  
Bilbo felt guilt settle deep in his bones, an ache that reminded him of the tears in his mother's eyes when he'd returned, bruised and tired, but also ecstatic and full of adrenaline. His father's face had been lined with shadow and so much paler than when he had left; it was as if he was a shade of who he had been.  
  
With a sharp inhale, his hand found itself in its pocket, and he touched a finger to the ring he'd found in the Misty Mountains, the one thing apart from his mother's presence that made him feel right and at peace. He'd never had a propensity for jewelry before, but seeing it glint at the corner of his eye—it felt right. Over the pounding of his heart, in the dampness of that forsaken mountain, Bilbo could've sworn he'd heard his mother's singing emanating from that small, unassuming gold band, and suddenly the darkness that had been closing in on him from all sides seemed somehow unimportant. For a fleeting moment, he considered putting it on. He could leave for the market, leave the Shire, and neither Hamfast nor his father would be able to stop him.  
  
It was only a memory which stayed his hand. The brief, but powerful sensation of a hungry malice that sent fear crawling up his spine when he placed the ring on his finger, gone almost immediately as it had come, leaving only a dull pounding of his head. Part of him was wary of the ring— _frightened of it_ —but he also wanted it, needed it. He couldn't let it go because it was somehow... important.  
  
Special.  
  
 _Precious_ , his mind hissed.  
  
Returning his hands to his sides seemed more difficult than it should have been and he felt them shake. Had he been more aware of himself, he would have admitted that he felt angrier than he had moments before. He leveled a scowl at the older Hobbit that actually made him step back a bit. "I don't need a reminder, I remember very clearly, thank you. I'm going to the market," he growled. "Hardly a dangerous excursion, Hamfast. Now if you would please move."  
  
Hamfast shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't possibly allow you to abandon your duties."  
  
Bilbo swallowed hard and let out an audible huff of frustration. Couldn't he understand that Bilbo needed an escape? If only for a second he could forget about the news he received that morning, it would be worth it. He grit his teeth, fully prepared to get past, by any means, when he really looked at Hamfast. Bilbo's anger drained from his body almost instantly. He could see Hamfast took no pleasure in keeping him from where he wanted to go. Hamfast only ever wanted to help. Bilbo  felt a rush of shame at the way he had snapped at him. It wasn't as if he knew how much Bilbo dreaded his return. He  earnestly said, "Hamfast, please... I can't... I can't do it. Not now. Please, as a friend, I am asking you. You can tell my father you couldn't stop me, I'll make sure you don't get in trouble. I just... please."  
  
Hamfast's eyes widened and his mouth worked, before he clenched his jaw and nodded once. "Fine."  
  
Bilbo's eyes widened and he said, incredulous, "what, really?"  
  
"Darn it all, Bilbo," Hamfast groaned, "yes, alright? You'll be the death of me someday, don't I know it. Fine, alright. Fine. I'll convince your father you were taken ill or something of the like."  
  
Grinning, Bilbo threw his arms around him and exclaimed, "you're fantastic. A treasure. Absolutely bloody brilliant," to an utterly exasperated Hamfast, and took off running down the road.  
  
He barely heard Hamfast's shout of, "you'll owe me luncheon for a month after this," before it was swallowed by the wind rushing in his ears. Bilbo paid no mind to the stares of the other hobbits on the lane, couldn't find it in himself to care really, because for the moment he was free of responsibility and propriety. He didn't think of duty or dwarves or mysterious bloody rings because was free, and that was the only thing on his mind and he absolutely adored the feeling. He thought he deserved a bit of freeing, at least.  
  


* * *

  
  
The market was crowded, as it often was, filled with the hustle and bustle of hobbits trying to get what they wanted when they wanted it. The scent of fresh baked bread and spices hung heavy in the air and Bilbo's grin widened when his stomach growled. It was an almost shocking realization that he hadn't eaten anything all day and it was already well past noon. Food was suddenly a singular thought in his mind, and he weaved his way through the throng of bodies darting this way and that. His eyes locked onto a pile of apples from a fruit cart and his stomach growled in reply. The vendor caught his gaze, raised an eyebrow, and leaned forward with a sympathetic look. "Miss afternoon tea, did you, your highness?"  
  
Bilbo snapped his mouth shut and briefly wondered if the hunger he felt was really so blatantly written across his face. With a sheepish look he added, "and luncheon. And elevensies, and second breakfast—"

  
He cut off at the vendor's horrified expression. "Here," he said, picking up an apple and tossing it to him.  
  
Bilbo caught it in one hand, surprised. "Thank you. How much?"  
  
"Ah, keep it, free o' charge."  
  
"But—I am capable of paying, you know," Bilbo said with a furrowed brow.  
  
He certainly didn't like being handed things just because of who he was. The vendor gave him a soft smile and said, "I know very well you can pay. But you look like you could eat a horse at the moment, and frankly, you should get somethin' in that stomach o' yours before you pass out. No one's gonna miss one measly apple."  
  
Bilbo glanced from the apple in his hand to the vendor and back again. "How about this. I'll trade you for it. You look a bit hungry as well."  
  
"Aye, I could eat," the vendor chuckled.   
  
"Well, I could go down to Griffo's shop and and bring you back a slice of pie. Food in exchange for food. Sound fair?"  
  
The vendor gave an honest grin. "If you truly insist, Prince Bilbo, I've no objections."  
  
"Great! Any preference of filling?"  
  
"Whatever's on hand, I'm not picky."  
  
Bilbo inclined his head in acknowledgment and said, turning to face the crowd, "I'll be back before you can say Baggins."  
  
With that, he finished off his apple at a speed which alarmed even him and made his way to the south side, where Griffo Boffin kept his small shop. Weaving his way around the multitude of stands was no easy task. It seemed like half the Shire decided to buy their wares that day. It didn't help that several items caught his eye. Stands left and right claimed ownership of things like rare seeds from Greenwood, or hand crafted garden tools from Bree.  
  
Over the shoulder of an older hobbit in a hat, he finally caught sight of Griffo's stand to his right and made his way over. The stand was surrounded by a multitude of customers, all of which looked decidedly impatient. Griffo himself was alone, harried and wide eyed, running his hands through his hair when a scowling Hobbit lass complained she had yet to receive her order. Bilbo drew closer, concerned, and hopped over the barrier brazenly advertising "the most delectable meat pies in Hobbiton." He caught several whispers as the customers noticed him, though, thankfully, he heard none of what was said. Sidling up to Griffo with a smile, he tapped the Hobbit on the shoulder. Whirling around, Griffo's pale face grew alarmingly whiter. "Prince Bilbo," he stuttered out, teeth clicking, "I'm so sorry, b-but I'll get to your order as soon as I can, I promise you that. It's just a bit slow without Viggo—he has a terrible cold and couldn't come in. I'm sorry in advance for the wait, your highness."  
  
Bilbo rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Griffo, you can just call me Bilbo," he said with a sigh, though at Griffo's anxious expression he adopted a lighter tone. "And don't worry. Before I go asking you to make any pies for me, I'll have to make sure you don't keel over from the effort. I can help."  
  
Griffo blinked at him, hands frozen in reaching for the dough he had placed on the counter top. "You... what?"  
  
Bilbo spread his arms and smiled, saying, "just tell me what you need me to do."  
  
Griffo looked stunned for a moment, before nodding slowly, color returning to his cheeks. "Right. You're sure, then?"  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
"Right. Alright," Griffo repeated, "well, if you could start on the crusts, I'll get the filling done, yeah?"  
  
Bilbo nodded seriously, giving Griffo a mock salute. He was delighted to see him smile in reply and a give small scoff under his breath. The relief left him feeling lighter. That Griffo, whom he had only spoken with a handful of times, could be comfortable in his company was something he had only hoped for. He liked the chef. He was amiable and funny and kind—all traits Bilbo held in high regard. There weren't many whom Bilbo was close with that he genuinely liked, most being stuffy relations all clambering for his attention for a bit of power. The rest merely tolerated him. Bilbo knew he himself was a bit of an enigma to the population. They all thought him a bit odd and most were wary around him. He knew he wasn't entirely normal and part of him didn't give a damn, because he didn't quite like the Shire's definition of normal anyway.  
  
That's not to say it didn't bother him when he heard the whispers of _Mad Prince Baggins_ , hissed between clenched teeth under disapproving gazes. There was always hushed conversation when he walked past and morbidly curious eyes boring into the back of his head, and while he didn't like it, he didn't think he could do anything about it. The Took side of him told him to embrace it and usually he made a point to, to seek out adventures and dream of doing things any respectable hobbit would turn their noses up at.  
  
A hand on his arm jolted him away from his thoughts and he glanced up to see Griffo's concerned, bemused gaze. "You alright, your highness? You've been staring at your hands for the past few minutes."  
  
Bilbo gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile and patted his flour coated palms against his trousers. "Of course. Sorry, I just... I've had a lot on my mind."  
  
Griffo shifted and furrowed his brow. "If you can't stay and help it's really fine, I appreciate the gesture—"  
  
"No, no I can," Bilbo said quickly, and winced at the urgent tone of his voice.  
  
Griffo studied him a moment longer, before nodding slowly and saying, "alright, Bilbo."  
  
How he could feel better instantly just hearing his name fall from someone's lips, he didn't know. Their movements fell into a sort of syncopation, after Bilbo had acquainted himself with the general layout of the bakery. Bilbo had always liked baking, ever since he and his mother snuck into Bag End's kitchens as they attempted to make a cake for Bungo's birthday while hiding their presence from the staff. He missed the moments he had spent with his mother, back when he was younger and believed she would be by his side forever. Nowadays, Belladonna was bedridden, the Fell Winter leaving the Shire's queen with a wracking cough that only grew worse with the coming months.  
  
As luck would have it, Griffo's grin came easier as the orders came through, drawing Bilbo away from troublesome thoughts. "Bilbo, you're surprisingly good at this," Griffo said amusedly over his shoulder, looking at the pie rack Bilbo had just pulled from the oven.  
  
Bilbo smiled at him and set the rack down to cool, pulling the mitts off his hands. "Thanks," he said, turning back to the bowl of unused dough. "I actually quite like baking, when I have the time for it."  
  
"Oh really?" Griffo inquired from behind.  
  
"Yes. Hamfast calls it stress baking. Maybe it is, but I find it a respite. Helps to get my mind off things, even more so than gardening. In a kitchen, the only thing that really matters in that moment is what you're making, you know?" Bilbo said, pressing down on a rolling pin.  
  
Griffo placed a bowl full of blueberry filling next to Bilbo and began to spoon it into the pie crusts awaiting the oven. "Oh, I know," he intoned with a knowing smile, "part of why I love it so much."  
  
"What are the other parts then?"  
  
Griffo paused in his stirring for a moment, a pensive look on his face. Handing one of the finished pies to a customer, he murmured, "it's creation. It makes people happy. Hobbits love good food, and think the reason for that is that good food brings people together. It's a uniting factor, common ground, connection. That's why I like it. It brings folks together and keeps me grounded in the process."  
  
Bilbo stared at him and Griffo met his eyes sharply, as if he hadn't really realized what he'd said. Snorting, Griffo shook his head and continued stirring. "That was far more an introspective answer than I'll ever give again, I promise you that. How're the crusts coming on?"  
  
Drawing his eyes away, Bilbo looked at the orders above his head for a moment, before glancing down with some surprise. "Actually, this is the last one we'll need."  
  
Griffo nodded and opened his mouth to respond, but suddenly Bilbo remembered, "oh! Oh, drat it all, it almost slipped my mind entirely. I need another pie."  
  
Griffo gave him an amused look. "For yourself, then?"  
  
"No, no," Bilbo said, "for another... person. I just, I owe them a pie."  
  
Griffo raised his eyebrows slowly and said, with a regaling lilt in his voice, "interesting debt. Well, if you could just whip up another bit of crust, I'd greatly appreciate it. Your friend alright with blueberry?"  
  
Bilbo nodded, his face a bit red from the heat of the open stove and from embarrassment. He could practically feel the amusement radiating from Griffo as he flattened more dough. "Alright, alright, it's not as if I go around owing people pies left and right—this is a one time occurrence, I can assure you."  
  
Griffo's loud laugh echoed through the room, making two Hobbits across the lane glance over curiously. "Well, it's certainly not normal, but, well, when has normal been of any interest, eh?"  
  
Bilbo huffed a laugh and turned his attention to his task once more. Before long, the orders had disappeared and Bilbo found a pie being placed into his arms. "Thank you," he said to Griffo with a grin. "Two copper pieces, if I'm not mistaken?"  
  
"Please, without you I probably would have had a lot of unsatisfied customers storming away to tell their friends. Just take it to your friend, free of expense."  
  
Bilbo's jaw dropped and he spluttered, "what is it today with people giving me free things—I don't—please, let me pay you, for Eru's sake."  
  
Griffo chuckled. "One piece then. I'll settle for no more." Bilbo sighed and dug his hand in his pocket, placing the amount into Griffo's outstretched palm. Griffo, after a second of hesitation, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Bilbo."  
  
"You too, Griffo. If you ever need help in the future, I'm always willing," Bilbo replied, fiddling with the edges of the pie tin.  
  
"I'll keep that in mind. Best get that to your friend before it cools off."  
  
"Right," Bilbo said, studying the pie and turning to go. He paused at the barrier and glanced back, flushing when he met Griffo's questioning gaze. "I mean, when I say that I'd be willing... I just—would it be alright if—I mean, I wouldn't want to impose but—"  
  
"Bilbo," Griffo interjected, laughing, "you can stop by whenever you'd like. After today, I'd welcome you in my kitchen any time."  
  
Bilbo's grin was impossible to contain. "That's... I'd really like that. The kitchens at Bag End are always so crowded and I just..."  
  
He trailed off, biting his lip. "It's been a while and I realized I miss it. Baking, that is. So, thank you."  
  
Griffo's expression softened. "It'll be a pleasure to work alongside you, Master Baggins."  
  
"Likewise, Master Boffin," he replied.  
  
Jumping over the barrier, he was relieved to see the number of people had thinned out and a small number remained in the lane. He spotted the vendor almost instantly, packing up his cart and that which he hadn't sold. Bilbo waved when the vendor looked in his direction. "Here you go," he said, holding the pie out to him when he got close enough.  
  
"Your majesty," the vendor exclaimed with a smile. "I must confess, I was beginning to think you'd forgotten our arrangement."  
  
Handing the pie to the vendor, he said, "yes, well, I'm sorry about the wait. Griffo was having trouble without his partner so I decided to step in. And, honestly, just call me Bilbo, please."  
  
"I'd like that, Mister Bilbo," he said softly. "And it's no trouble, no trouble at all. Thank you very much for the pastry."  
  
"Oh, pish posh. Least I could do, really," Bilbo said, waving a hand in the air. "Unfortunately, I really ought to be returning to Bag End."  
  
"I hope to see you at the market again then," the vendor replied earnestly, maneuvering his cart around.  
  
"Yes, ye—Oh, oh wait!" Bilbo called after his retreating back.  
  
The vendor turned back to look at him with a twinkle in his eye. "I'm afraid I never caught your name," Bilbo said apologetically.  
  
The vendor laughed softly, expression almost gleeful. "Well, that's probably because I never _threw_ it," he chuckled over his shoulder, "I hope we'll meet again, Master Bilbo, should fate allow."  
  
He continued on his way, leaving a bemused Bilbo opening and closing his mouth to the empty space in front of him. Snapping his mouth shut and shaking his head, then glancing at his feet and to the end of the lane, he shifted uneasy at the thought of meeting with his father. Well... There wasn't any reason he'd have to see his father right away... He could visit his mother a for bit first. "Right, yes, that sounds much less horrible," he murmured, and, kicking a pebble, retraced the eager steps he had taken earlier that afternoon with decidedly less energy.  
  


* * *

  
  
The door was imposing. A figurehead, not terribly large or grand, but symbolic in a way that no other door could be, at least to him. Mahogany, hand carved, the product of love and labor and will. The paint never chipped, the handle gleamed as the day it was commissioned, it seemed to transcend description and time itself.  
  
He counted the infinitesimal grooves for what felt like hours, raking his eyes over it, imagining it standing for centuries without even a hint of its age. He knew, rationally, that the door was only 47 years old, he'd grown up with it, he'd seen it out of the corner of his eye every day of his life, and yet—  
  
And yet.  
  
It was the silence that had halted his entry, the silence that had rocked him to his core and left him staring, hoping that maybe it would open from inside and he would be greeted with a smile and a laugh sweeter than anything he had heard before. He looked down at his hands and wondered why, why it was so hard to reach out and open it himself. The door seemed to mock his reluctance, it sang of warm memories only to leave a present gloom that stifled the air in his lungs, made his body shake with nerves and an aching, present reality that he hated.  
  
It was the silence that hurt, silence that prompted such a perverse knowledge of wrongness to flood his gut. He could feel the chill of the stillness through the wood of the door, cold— _it didn't used to be cold, why is it_ cold—and it seemed to sink into itself against his palm. The knob was like ice, cutting him to the bone and brutally reminding him of what might lie on the other side.  
  
With a breath, and a yank, the door swung open and seemed to hang off his fingertips awaiting a sentence, awaiting a word, just  
  
Waiting.  
  
"...Mama?"  
  
Silence.  
  
Panic, a sharp, stabbing fear that pressed against his skin and settled in his bones and she couldn't be gone no, no, he needed her, not today he needed here, he needed her because she was the sun and warmth and light and he couldn't, he needed her now, he couldn't do it alone—  
  


"Bilbo?"  
  
The breathless sob that escaped from his lips was an involuntary thing. He tripped over his feet in a mindless stumble to her bedside, watery smile pulling at his lips even as he blinked away tears. She reached up a hand— _pale, quivering, cold_ —to his cheek and her smile grew, grew to the point where he could almost pretend nothing had happened, that things were the same as they always had been. Her eyes—it was always her eyes, the strongest part of her, unwavering and steadfast and beautiful—sparkled in the low light, the color of meadows and flowers, life and growth. A slight wrinkle appeared between her brows and her smile dimmed. "What's wrong, darling?"  
  
He sucked in a breath and suddenly he was ten years old again, sobbing in his mother's arms because he was different, the whispers from the other children echoing in his ears. But the concern in her eyes was the same despite everything and something inside him calmed. His breathing came steadier and his hands, one in hers and one fisted in the sheets, stopped shaking. And suddenly he knew, he could be strong for her, always for her.  
  
"It's just... I was just wondering if you have any stories about Erebor."  
  


* * *

  _Two Years Ago_

_The first thing Bilbo was aware of was the smell. There was nothing in his mind but the stench, something like rotting meat and decay, thick and cloying in the air. It enveloped him, forced itself down his throat, and made him gag and heave, leaving him wincing at the pain the movement caused. The ability to maneuver his limbs came slowly, every jerk of his fingers a frustrating, terrifying indication of the danger he might be in. The ground Bilbo was half conscious of was unforgiving and the spongy substance which had broken his fall was shattered, pieces scattered and digging into his back and his sides. The coolness of the rock, however, was blessing against the slow pounding of his head._

  
_Swallowing, Bilbo curled in on himself and coughed, sharp, wet heaves hacking up dust. He managed to sit up, after his head stopped spinning, panting with exertion and trepidation. His surroundings were dismal, the drip of water distant yet constant, like a demented heartbeat, fraying his nerves. He could see very little and looking up, ignoring the twinge in his neck, he could not even determine how far he had fallen. The goblin he had pulled down with him, his futile attempt at a handhold, was thankfully unmoving. Bilbo hoped desperately that the thing was dead—if it attacked him, he wouldn't have the strength to defend himself. He could only pray that the goblin would be his only worry._   
  
_Cradling his right side, which he supposed had taken the brunt of the impact, Bilbo supposed he should thank the Valar that he was even alive at all. He remembered the dwarrows' expressions when he had lost purchase against the rickety structure, fighting furiously against a swarm of goblins to get to him. But he was alive, he was alive, and with any luck the others had managed to escape._   
  
_A noise, from the darkness of the opening, a scuffling sound, stopped Bilbo's heart in his chest. As silently as he could, he moved behind the structure that he had landed on, sliding down onto his stomach. There was silence, where Bilbo could hear only the rapid beating of his heart like a drum and his ragged breathing, muffled under his palm. Then, to Bilbo's horror, he heard a cackle come from the darkness beyond, a child-like giggle that sounded so wrong in such a place it made him nauseated. "Yes! What has it broughts us, Precious?" he heard._   
  
_Bilbo closed his eyes as a shuffling sound brought the creature closer. "Goblinses! We hasn't had goblinses for days," the creature warbled, then made a wracking, guttural noise in its throat._   
  
_Another high pitched laugh sounded, and Bilbo heard something being dragged. Must be the goblin, Bilbo thought with a grimace. The scraping sound continued, then abruptly stopped. Bilbo sucked in a silent, anxious breath. "Precious," the creature said softly. "What's it gots over there?"_   
  
_Bilbo shook like a leaf as he heard the creature draw closer and put a hand on the hilt of the little sword Gandalf had given him before his departure. Clenching his jaw when the creature didn't stop, he made a decision. He didn't want to die cowering, at least. Jumping to his feet, adrenaline pumping, he whirled around, pointing the sword at the creature. The thing hissed and sprang back, narrowing its eyes and baring its teeth. Bilbo felt ill at the sight of the pale, scrawny thing in front of him. Its skin looked as if it hadn't seen the sun for decades and Bilbo noticed the stench of rot seemed to be emanating from the creature. It tilted his head and stared at him with wide, reflective eyes. "What is it, Precious?" the creature asked. "What is it?"_   
  
_Bilbo tried to make the sword in his hands stop shaking, to no avail. Teeth chattering, he managed to grit out, "Baggins. Bilbo Baggins. Now, l-let me pass."_   
  
_The creature's head tilted further and it shifted closer, ignoring a warning swing from Bilbo. "Bagginses?" it hissed. "What is a Bagginses?"_


	3. Fear in a Handful of Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Checking back in with Thorin.  
> **  
> Next chapter we see Bilbo once more, and then the chapter after that our dwarrows FINALLY reach the Shire. We'll see what happens ;)

The dream was always the same and yet it came so disparately that he wasn't entirely certain it was.  
  
They were two days into the journey, the Greenwood an ever present monstrosity to the East, spanning miles upon miles of imposing grandeur. Most of the group were loathe to travel so close to Elvish territory, but the stretch of trees at the edge of the forest proved excellent cover. It would not do to be susceptible to an Orc raid, especially at night. They were not known to attack so near the kingdom of Thranduil and Thorin hoped this would prove true still. His father had told him, before they departed, to be wary, for Orcs had been growing more and more bold over the passing months.  
  
As the sun began to set, they made camp. Their meal was a loud, rowdy affair—Thorin found it often was with these dwarrows. Bofur had claimed to be a decent cook, which was better than Thorin could say for Balin or Dwalin at any rate, so he'd been deemed the honorary chef. "Everythin' I know, I picked up from my brother," he'd proclaimed with a smile.  
  
"Would your brother happen to be named Bombur?" Thorin had asked, falling into step with the miner.  
  
"He is," Bofur had said with a grin, "do you know him from the kitchens then?"  
  
"Aye, I've been down once or twice—though less so than when I was a dwarfling. I'm no great cook myself, though I can recognize talent in such an area when I see it."  
  
Bofur had inclined his head good-naturedly and replied, "well, I'll be sure to tell 'im then, that the Prince of Erebor holds his cooking in high regard. He'll be ecstatic, he will."  
  
When the food was prepared, Thorin ate in silence, watching Bofur enthusiastically teach Nori and Ori a lewd drinking song, while Dori, their brother he'd learned, protested heartily. Bifur, he noticed, was off picking flowers to the left of the camp, though when he caught Thorin's raised eyebrow and puzzled expression he simply raised both eyebrows in return, as if proposing a challenge. He'd learned from Bofur that Bifur had suffered an injury that left him much less social than he once was, as he often had difficulty speaking. When Thorin discovered that the injury had occurred at Khazad-dûm, so many years ago, he had balled his hands into fists and fought the onslaught of images that came to his mind. He'd have liked to say he remembered Bifur in the ranks, remembered his bravery in battle, but he could not. All he knew for certain that day was death, the sight of it, the eye watering smell of it in the air.  
  
Thorin found his mood had soured considerably with the memory of battle and he became snappish and distant, so much so that the others, even Frerin, began to give him a wide berth. It was always at the back of his mind, threatening to overtake him, to send him spiraling into grief and remorse. Unsurprisingly, it was Balin who picked up on the reason.  
  
"Laddie," he began, settling next to Thorin on the ground and leaving Dwalin to his watch, "no good comes of dwelling on the past."  
  
Thorin set his bowl of stew down. He had barely eaten any of it anyways—how could he when the memory of Orcs mutilating dwarvish bodies and collecting limbs as trophies was at the forefront of his mind. "I do not _dwell_ on the past," he said, voice low.

Balin snorted and gave him a long stare. Thorin shifted uncomfortably in the silence that followed, eyes flitting to Frerin as he lay snoring in his bedroll, wishing sleep might come as easily to him. Glancing back, Balin's expression had not changed. Rolling his eyes, Thorin relented. "How do you always know what plagues my mind?"

  
Balin sighed and gave him a small, humorless smile. "I thought it was the stress of the journey, at first. Then I noticed how often your eyes strayed to Bifur. You were not alone in that battle, Thorin. But, Lad, this company, the dwarrows of Erebor—we all need you in the here and now. You shouldn't place the mistakes of others on your shoulders. For Mahal's sake, try making some of your own," Balin chuckled.  
  
"Funny," Thorin said dryly. "Hilarious."  
  
There was a pause, one so silent Thorin could hear the even breathing of his companions from across the fire. Balin's voice was quiet but steady when he said, "the memory of such a battle is a heavy burden to bear. But if there was ever a dwarf who could bear it, it would be you. I do not doubt you are strong of body, Thorin Oakenshield. Most dwarrows are. Be that as it may, you also have the greatest spirit I have ever known."  
  
Thorin swallowed hard and studied Balin's features with wide eyes. "It was you who rallied our forces," the older dwarf continued, "when all our hopes were forgotten, lying in the mud with our fallen brothers. It is because of you that we had any victory at all that day. Do you know what I thought to myself, as I saw you take up your shield, refusing to be beaten, refusing to surrender? As you stood without fear before the Defiler?"  
  
"No," Thorin rasped, finding the word almost stuck in his throat.  
  
"I thought, there is one I could follow. There is one I could call king."  
  
"Balin," he began, but found he didn't really know what to say. The tightness in his chest made it difficult to speak at all. Thorin felt overwhelmed, an almost crushing responsibility settling on his shoulders.  
  
Balin seemed to sense his internal conflict and nudged Thorin's arm. "You should sleep, Thorin. You certainly could use some rest."  
  
"I—you cannot order me to bed anymore, Balin, I'm not a child," Thorin huffed through a shaky laugh.  
  
"Sleep."

"I am also your superior—"

  
"Thorin."  
  
"—and the heir to an entire kingdom—"  
  
"Honestly, you're more stubborn than you were as a dwarfing."  
  
Thorin planned to make a scathingly sarcastic remark in reply, but was cut off by a yawn. When he saw Balin's smug expression he rolled his eyes. Getting up, he set up his bedroll with exaggerated movements and heard Balin huff a laugh before he returned to his place at Dwalin's side. Thorin stared blankly up at the clear sky, listening to his brother's snores next to him and the softening din of the rest of the company as they too began to settle for the night. Still, he lay awake for a long time, anxiety warring with a gut-wrenching guilt that sent his mind spinning. Exhaustion finally sent him drifting towards unconsciousness, but he went fitfully, worries clouding his thoughts even as they faded from his reach.  
  


* * *

  
_Black. If the world could drown and blur into a singular color—no hint of the solid, reliable blue of the sky he'd loved to gaze at as a child under so much_ ash— _then it had. There were only shades of darkness. A whirl of silhouetted figures at the corners of his perception, they were there, certainly, but irrelevant, for the moment. His was a single purpose. Stab. Block. Dodge. Kill. Survive._  
  
 _The curiosity of the battle was that it was not a battle at all, merely an endless stream of one enemy after the other, each replaced by an almost identical figure beginning the cycle again. Faceless adversary after faceless adversary, their blood staining his sword and fueling his rage. The dwarf slashed through flesh and bone already mutilated by darkness and felt no remorse, only a heady rush of adrenaline and excitement which thrummed at his skin and sang in his veins._  
  
 _Suddenly, he heard the pounding beat of drums, a menacing heartbeat. It made him pause, eyes darting around in mild confusion muddled by battle lust. His path was clear, inexplicably, and sharp relief flooded his senses when he realized he could see the sky again, that the overwhelming blackness had dissipated. Enemies and shadows with cold features brushed past him, ran through him, leaving an icy ache in his chest. A sudden spectator. A nameless ghost. But he did have a name. He did and it was—_

  
 _The last word he saw on his grandfather's lips, shaking, feeble and barely there at all. Before the battle, before he went mad with greed, before he ran into the thick of the fighting, his bellow of rage trailing after him like an echo. The dwarf saw his grandfather's face, stock still, eyes once filled with paranoia suddenly empty, mouth gaping in silent shock. He saw it—again?—in the distance, a slow, demented roll over a corpse-ridden field, blood and gore nearly obscuring his grandfather's wide, unseeing blue eyes. He couldn't move, he was rooted to the spot, surrounded by decay, choking on death. His lips worked, formed his name, breathless and empty and in reply he heard only a dark, chilling laugh and the harsh bark of the Black Speech. The shadows converged on him, as if on command, and he fought madly against their hold—tried to fight—but his body would not obey his mind, he was motionless, weightless, formless. He screamed and spat at the creatures tethering his arms and legs, tying him down, making him vulnerable. Making him weak._  
  
 _A pair of cold, glittering eyes appeared in the darkness before him and he struggled frantically to move back, move away. A smile formed next, a gruesome expanse of jagged teeth and foul breath, and a face, pale, devoid of any emotion save an intense malice tainting the creature's expression like poison. The dwarf growled as it—he—drew closer, panicking even as his mind whirred, found a name to fit the face. The Defiler, the Pale Orc. The monster who had killed his grandfather where he stood_ —knelt, _in fear for his life and the treasure his eyes would never look upon again—and he felt his resolve crumble, felt his fear overtake him in a shameful wave. He stopped struggling as the full figure came into view._  
  
 _Azog._  
  
 _The Orc's grin grew larger, more twisted, and he reached out his hand—no, there was no hand, because that was the one thing he managed to get_ right, _the one thing he could do—and tilted his head up, fingers_ —claws, _biting metal and stinging darkness in place of a hand—digging into the soft flesh of his throat. The Pale Orc drew closer still, so when he spoke the dwarf could smell the blood on his breath. The monster used the language of his forefathers, his language, and dirtied it, each syllable was painful and wrong._  
  
"Long live the king."  
  
 _And he—the dwarf_ —Thorin— _could not speak, could not react, because he was burning, everything was fire and an agony he had not known before flared at his nerves. He couldn't scream or cry out because he had no throat and no voice, could only count the seconds of suffering in hopes that death would come soon._  
  
 _He heard, distantly, as if through a tunnel, laughter and a different voice, whispered, barely there at all. A bright, white light flooded his vision, almost blinding in its power. The voice was calming, melodious and somehow lessened the pain and the intensity of burning on Thorin's skin. It said only one thing, repeated, again and again._  
  
"We wait for you."  
  


* * *

  
Thorin awoke with a shout stuck in his throat and promptly turned to his side and dry-heaved, bile gagging him and bringing tears to his eyes. He hated the way his body shook and the reason he couldn't breathe properly. It was a mind numbing fear that had overtaken his senses— _made him weak_ —and he _hated_ the feeling with a terrifying intensity. After a few moments, he managed to calm his nerves, feeling the cool grass beneath his hands. Groggily, he registered a weight on his shoulder, and turned to find Dwalin, face unreadable, with his arm outstretched.  
  
His friend raised his eyebrows, a silent question, and Thorin nodded. Dwalin was no stranger to nightmares either.  
  
A quick glance told Thorin that no one but he and Dwalin were awake. Thorin was silently glad of it, thanking the Valar that the others had not seen his loss of composure. Logically he knew that even if they had, they likely wouldn't say anything about it, but it always felt wrong to show his weaknesses. Thror had insisted that weakness was not to be tolerated.  
  
With Dwalin steadying him, Thorin got to his feet with a shaky exhale. "Have the dreams gotten worse, then?" Dwalin asked, expression cautious.  
  
"Not worse," Thorin rasped, "but more frequent."  
  
Dwalin nodded, brow furrowed and made to respond. "Do you—"  
  
"Oh, are you having bad dreams, Prince Thorin, sir?"  
  
Thorin started and Dwalin whirled around, glaring at the small figure on the ground who had spoken. Ori seemed to shrink back a bit at Dwalin's hard stare but still met his gaze head on. "Are librarians never taught that eavesdroppin' is a trait of cowards and thieves?" Dwalin growled.  
  
Thorin rolled his eyes and made to pull Dwalin back, maybe knock some sense into him, when Ori seemed to bristle and spluttered, "I—I'll have you know I am a _scribe_ , Master Dwalin, and as far as I'm aware sitting in one's bedroll reading does not make one a criminal. In such a way, I was not eavesdropping, I just happened to be in the vicinity of your loud conversation. Anyways, I only ask because I know my brother has some skill with tea, and I know of a particular sort which makes slumber come easier and more peacefully. I only wish to help, so I would thank you to keep your idiotic assumptions to yourself, sir."  
  
Thorin couldn't help the short bark of laughter that escaped him at the sight of Dwalin's reddened, furious face, despite how tired he felt. The young scribe was one, he felt, who was sharp and level-headed. He imagined Balin would have been similar in his earlier years, being both a scholar and a respected warrior. Mahal knew Balin and Dís were the only sensible dwarrows in his life. Ignoring Dwalin's glare whipping to him, he turned to Ori and said, "I thank you for your concern. If your brother would be willing, I'm sure I would benefit gladly from such a thing."  
  
Ori smiled and pulled a notebook from out of his pack. "I'm just glad to be of service—and I'm certain my brother would feel the same."  
  
Dwalin let out a strangled noise and stormed away, all the while muttering darkly under his breath. Thorin and Ori watched his departure silently and Ori seemed to deflate. "Is he... always like that?" Ori asked after a beat, fiddling with a quill in his hands.  
  
"Unfortunately, yes," Thorin sighed. "But he does have his saving graces. Loyalty. Honor. Bravery. Do not let his words dishearten you. Dwalin's trust is not something easily won, especially by those he does not know."  
  
Ori nodded, staring down at his gloved hands. Thorin sensed he wasn't the only one in want of a distraction. "Would you be opposed to company, Master Ori?"  
  
Ori tilted his head and looked up at him with wide eyes. "Opposed...?" he mumbled, a crease between his brows. "Oh! Oh, of course not—I mean, if you wish to—to sit, that is, with me, I wouldn't... I wouldn't be opposed at all, y-your highness."  
  
Smiling to himself, Thorin sank down next to Ori's bedroll and leaned back, balancing his weight with his hands spread behind. The sun would rise soon, but at the moment the sky remained speckled with disappearing stars. The air was warm, warmer still as the sun sluggishly clawed its way over the horizon line. Thorin glanced at Ori, who seemed like he was growing more at ease with each passing moment. "Do you often find yourself awake so early, Master Ori?"  
  
"Usually I like to. It's so I might sketch the sunrise. For some reason I find it preferable to the sunset," Ori replied.  
  
Thorin turned to him, interested. "I see. You're an artist as well, then?"  
  
Ori flushed and mumbled, "oh, I just... I dabble... I'm not particularly good..."  
  
"May I see one of your creations?"  
  
"Y-you want to?" Ori squeaked, hands gripping the fabric of his bedroll tightly.  
  
Thorin didn't want to push, so he continued, "if you don't wish me to see, it's perfectly fine. I find my curiosity gets the better of me occasionally."  
  
"Well..." Ori hesitated, fingers tapping against his leg. "I suppose it's alright. Though I would ask you not to expect much."  
  
Thorin nodded and Ori dug into his pouch, pulling out a small stack of parchment bound together with a leather strap. "I try to keep them organized," Ori admitted, handing the pile to Thorin. "I constantly worry they'll be crushed in my pack during the journey. It wouldn't be any great loss truly but..." Thorin opened the pile as Ori tapered off, and could not help the surprise that flitted across his face. "What is it?" Ori asked.

  
Thorin looked up from Ori's drawings with an incredulous expression, meeting Ori's gaze. "These are incredible," he said, smiling as the other dwarf's face grew red. "Truly. You've a gift."  
  
Ori looked pleased, even as he insisted, "oh, I'm not that great, really."  
  
Thorin slowly shook his head as he studied each piece. Many of them were of wildlife or of nature, each managing to capture a stunning amount of detail. They were only charcoal renderings, but somehow came to life despite a lack of color. The last three were portraits, one a perfect likeness of Nori, grinning like a madman, the second of Dori, with a teacup raised halfway to his lips. The final sketch was of someone Thorin had never met. It was of a young male, with curly hair and eyes that seemed to dance against the paper. His lips were pulled up into a small smile, playful and mischievous. "Who is this?" Thorin murmured, hand brushing the parchment.  
  
Ori leaned over to look and exclaimed, "oh, that's him, that's Bilbo!"  
  
"Bilbo?" Thorin repeated, eyes drifting to Ori in question.  
  
"The Prince of the Shire, Master Thorin. I asked him, during our journey, if he would let me draw him, so I might have something to remember him by. He seemed quite flattered by the request, as if he thought it surprising that I would miss him in his absence."  
  
Thorin blinked down at the paper with a new understanding. This, this face, was his intended. Thorin's finger traced the lines on the paper curiously. Bilbo Baggins. If Ori's sketch was anything like the original...  
  
Surely this trip could not be so awful as he had imagined.  
  
"This... Bilbo Baggins... what is your impression of him?" he finally asked, belatedly handing the pile back to Ori.  
  
"Bilbo? Well, he's rather small, as most hobbits are. Um, reddish blond hair, hazel eyes. He was always smiling too, when we were traveling. He was optimistic and upbeat, never letting an obstacle trump his spirits. I know he likes to read, a lot. He even brought a couple books with him, but they were lost in the Misty Mountains. You'd have thought he'd witnessed comrades fallen in battle with the way he mourned. Our love of literature was what brought us together actually. He... Bilbo's a good sort. We were all taken with him the moment Gandalf introduced us, I think. He's kind, but in a quiet way. Obliging and easy to laugh. If anything could capture the essence of Bilbo Baggins, his laugh would do it."  
  
"I see," Thorin said, his stomach suddenly a strange twist of nerves.  
  
Clearing his throat, he continued, "do you oft visit the Shire, then?"  
  
Ori's smile fell abruptly. "We..." Ori swallowed. "We did not part on the best of terms."  
  
Thorin furrowed his brow. "Why?"  
  
Ori wrung his hands in his lap and bit his lip. He said, lowly, "I'm not entirely certain. We left Bilbo at the foot of Bag End, with Gandalf. That was the last time we saw him. We had been planning to stay an additional week or so—it wasn't as if our departure time had been set in stone. But... the King sent a messenger... he made it very clear we were not welcome in the Shire any longer. Bilbo said nothing, though, before he went to meet his parents. He made no mention of anything being wrong. He even expressed a hope that we would remain, if only for a few days more. I just... I don't understand. I think, beneath all our eagerness is an apprehension, of sorts. As much as we're happy to be able to see Bilbo again, we're worried our sentiments will not be returned."  
  
Thorin frowned at Ori and opened his mouth to speak, when Frerin's head popped out from where it had been buried under a blanket. "Sounds like a prat," he yawned, teeth clacking when his jaw snapped shut again.  
  
Ori shook his head a bit frantically, looking between Thorin and Frerin with wide eyes. "No, no, he wasn't! He isn't! He's brave and smart and... he's our friend," he finished quietly. "I just... something must have happened. I've heard Gandalf has not been seen in the Shire as well, not recently at all."  
  
Frerin shrugged, as if this information meant nothing to him, and clambered out of the folds of his bedroll with some difficultly, all flailing limbs and sleep-addled features. "Uses his friends for his own purposes and then dumps them at a moments notice? Prat."  
  
"Frerin, behave yourself. Would it be so very difficult for you if you were to act your age?" Thorin admonished with a sigh.  
  
Frerin, at least, seemed to realize he'd made Ori upset and his expression became sheepish. Ori had turned his attention on packing up his bedroll and Thorin grit his teeth when he noticed the movements were jerky and the young dwarf's hands were shaking. Thorin narrowed his eyes at Frerin, who opened and closed his mouth without sound. Finally, his brother exhaled roughly and said, "listen, Ori, I—I never meant to... I'm sure it was all a misunderstanding, like you said."  
  
Ori's hands stilled from where they were forcefully shoving things into his pack. Thorin watched as the scribe's face twisted into something like sadness before he straightened, a small, neutral smile back in place. "That's alright, your majesty. If you'll both excuse me, I'd like to go for a walk."  
  
Nodding to Thorin, he added, "my apologies. Perhaps Prince Frerin might keep you company now."  
  
Ori left his pack and retreated to the opposite side of camp, where his brothers were still sleeping. As soon as he stepped out of earshot, Thorin whacked Frerin hard upside the head. "Mahal's balls, Thorin! That hurt," he groaned, clutching his head and glaring at Thorin fuzzily.

  
Thorin raised an eyebrow. "You're a moron."  
  
"Well it—"  
  
"You realize," Thorin began, narrowing his eyes when it seemed like Frerin would try to interrupt him in turn, "that this so called 'prat' might soon be your husband?"  
  
Frerin's indignant expression fell at that, but Thorin ignored the twinge of guilt it wrought. It wouldn't do to have Frerin continue to live a fantasy. "Right," Frerin mumbled, dragging a hand through his hair. "You're right. I just... that'll take getting used to."  
  
Sighing, Thorin looked eastward, at the first tendrils of warm sunlight beginning to show. Two more days. He got to his feet and reached for his sword, attached to his worn belt. "I suggest you prepare yourself," Thorin said, taking in Frerin's disheveled appearance and, yet, meaning two entirely different things altogether.  
  
And though Frerin wilted, he nodded and said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've debated where I'd like to take this story in the long run. There are two options at this point: I could focus on the arranged marriage and make that the main conflict, or I could include more of the Ring and create an overarching plot with that (don't worry there'll still be awkward courtship and cultural misunderstandings and what have you) but obviously that would make for a much longer story. Right now, I'm leaning toward the second option, but by all means if you have an opinion please let me know.


	4. And They Take the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go folks. This is gonna be a wild ride.  
> Also, preemptively, I am so so sorry for this.

Leaving his mother's chambers was a bit like stepping out of a world of sunshine and into one dreary and grey. Even so, Bilbo felt much more calm than he had been. Now, the prospect of facing his father, of gleaning clarification and perhaps even offering grudging acceptance—it somehow didn't seem as daunting as it once was. Bilbo shook off his worries for the moment with a glance at his mother's door. He thought his father would likely be down in the gardens. Bilbo knew he always tried to tend to the plants when he had time to spare, which wasn't often during the day, but rather in the late hours of the evening. He gardened more frequently after the Fell Winter had well and truly released its icy hold on the land.  
  
"Just helping the people get back on their feet, in any way I can," he had said when Bilbo asked, his eyes never leaving the root he had been working in. Bilbo hadn't mentioned the fact that he spent far more of his hours in Belladonna's garden than the communal ones. Bilbo wondered how much time he actually spent sleeping—it seemed like he spent every free moment out in the yard, tending to the garden.  
  
It really worried Bilbo when he noticed he never really saw his father at the breakfast tables anymore. Bilbo had asked the cooks, concerned that his father hadn't been eating, but they had assured him that he had been. He had his morning meals delivered to him in his chambers.  
  
Bilbo remembered how it had stung, even as he'd tried to reason it out, even as he'd gradually understood. Belladonna had always been the first one at the table, usually helping the cooks with the final preparations and the aesthetics of it all. It was hard to come down every morning subconsciously expecting her smile or a quip about early risers or _anything_ really, and being met with an empty seat. Bilbo did understand and he couldn't be cross with his father for it. He never treated his position differently and he, thankfully, remained a figure of reason and leadership in the Shire. Where Bilbo had reached out and sought comfort, his father had retreated into himself. And Bilbo, despite his personal misgivings, despite the overwhelming feeling of loneliness, understood.  
  
He caught a glimpse of his father's head through a window out by the veranda. With a nod to a young hobbit lass dusting the picture frames in the hall, he stepped out into the evening air. It was shaping up to be a clear night, warmer than usual, which Bilbo took as a good sign. His father was kneeling in the dirt, raking through the soil with his trowel, looking so relaxed that Bilbo reconsidered talking with him for another time. He put his palm on the door frame and turned to return inside when his father's voice called, "Bilbo, could you possibly help me with this? My hands are aching a bit from all this weeding."  
  
With a twinge in his stomach he couldn't quite identify as anxiety or relief, he slowly turned to face his father. Bungo wore an imploring, open expression and Bilbo padded down the few stairs leading to the garden bed. Sinking into the soil next to his father, he rested his weight on his heels. Bungo gestured for him to wear the spare gloves he had on hand, but Bilbo ignored him, burying his hands in the cool dirt and patting down the base of one the hydrangeas.  
  
His father shifted next to him, and Bilbo could feel his appraising stare, but eventually he settled and rolled his sleeves up again, beginning to direct Bilbo's movements. "So. I heard you fell suddenly ill this afternoon?"  
  
Bilbo scoffed halfheartedly and mumbled, "did Hamfast actually say that?"  
  
"Well, he tried to, certainly, but we both know how Hamfast is with lying. He was sweating up a storm before I even asked what happened."  
  
"I did say he could just tell you the truth," Bilbo said, staring at a ladybug adorning a petal, he coaxed it into his hand.  
  
"Hamfast does seem irrationally protective of you."  
  
Bilbo furrowed his brow and glared daggers at the creature in his palm, avoiding his father's gaze. He lowered his hand and it let it wander off, following its path through the soil almost enviously. "So, I'm not worthy of being protected, am I?"  
  
He heard his father make an affronted noise. "Now, you know that's not all what I—"  
  
"Why do you think I'm here, Father?" he asked tiredly, turning to meet his father's eyes.  
  
His father raised an eyebrow in reply. "Because you know I appreciate your assistance, now and always."  
  
"No," Bilbo said quietly, shaking his head. "I want you to tell me why am I suddenly to be married to a dwarf? Why now? And without even a word of explanation from you, except a message which contained the barest hint of any information at all? 'Bilbo Baggins is to be married to the son of Thrain II as means of a political merger between the Shire and Erebor.' That was it, wasn't it? That was all you gave me, all that poor messenger knew. Was it not important enough to tell me, your son, in person? Or even give me a reason? Or perhaps I'm not even your son at all, really—"  
  
"Bilbo."  
  
Bilbo's voice left him immediately, the silence a crushing presence as he realized his words had steadily increased in volume to the point where his throat had actually begun to hurt. And his father, he hadn't even denied anything, just looked at him with a solemn expression, and said his name like a plea, a whisper of a promise. "I just... I would like to know why," Bilbo said hoarsely.  
  
His father bit his lip and looked skyward, and for a moment he looked so ragged and tired Bilbo wondered how he even found the energy to move at all. "Bilbo, my boy," he said, putting a gloved hand on his cheek, "I want you to know that I love you. I do, and your mother does as well."  
  
Bilbo said nothing in reply, had nothing to say really. He glanced at a patch of tulips at the corner of his eye and in doing so avoided his father's gaze, so full of sadness it almost made him  angry, because if anyone should be upset it should be him. "It's true that part of the reason for this agreement was selfish. I... the last thing I ever wanted was to hinder your spirit, you must believe that. I want you to be happy. I know that you're an adventurous soul, Bilbo Baggins. Be that as it may, I also know that should you leave the Shire, with your mother in her condition, it would surely do me in."  
  
"Father—" Bilbo began, alarmed.  
  
"I can't lose both of you," Bungo whispered, voice thick. "I can't. And I cannot risk the stability of this Kingdom. Forgive me if I've tried to create a more concrete reason for you to stay."  
  
Bilbo's mouth worked but no sound came out. His father sounded... vulnerable. He'd really never thought of his father as anything less than a king. Bungo was always the driving force behind it all, behind the workings of the Shire, and with Bilbo himself. He was a sturdy foundation, solid, dependable. The only other moment Bilbo could recall his father breaking his composure was on his return from Rivendell. Bilbo remembered how terrified he'd felt when he'd seen the shadows under his father's eyes that made him almost unrecognizable. When they'd locked eyes, however, Bilbo had been terrified for a different reason. Because never, in his life, had his father looked at him with such open anger in his expression and such raw grief. It had taken months before Bungo even spoke to him directly, before he even looked at Bilbo without bitter disappointment coloring his features.  
  
Bilbo knew that he had a duty to the Shire as his father did, but he had always hoped, somehow, that things would work out in his favor. That he could be who he was duty-bound to be and who he was. But Bilbo was long past the age of believing that if you wished for something hard enough, it would come true. He had left once, tried, once, to make his own destiny, pave a new road, and it had ended in heartbreak. Maybe it would be better if he never left the Shire again.  
  
In the present moment, he wasn't a king, but a father. His father, who didn't seem to have any fire left in him. His arm clung to Bilbo's shoulder like a lifeline and Bilbo nodded once, with a curt finality, but also with something of a peace offering. Something to say without saying that they weren't necessarily _alright_ , but that Bilbo knew why, and that was what was important, wasn't it? His father slumped a bit, as if in relief, and sighed audibly. "What's the other bit, then," Bilbo asked, after a long and heavy silence settled over them.  
  
"The other reason?"  
  
Bilbo nodded slowly, not certain he'd like what his father would have to say, but certain he'd heard the worst already.  
  
Bungo straightened and something in his eyes hardened. Suddenly he was less father and more ruler, someone authoritative and sure. His voice was low and steady as he intoned, "I received a letter from Gandalf. Almost a week ago now."  
  
"Gandalf?" Bilbo repeated, incredulous. "Since when are you speaking to Gandalf?"  
  
His father was silent for a long moment. "Can you not feel it?" he asked quietly.  
  
When Bilbo didn't respond, simply stared in confusion, his father continued, "there is a darkness in the air. A taint. News of giant, terrifying creatures invading the Greenwood. Orc sightings only a few miles from our borders have increased almost tenfold—the largest numbers since the winter. The wind carries the scent of death, Bilbo."  
  
"Father," Bilbo said, voice quivering slightly, "what did Gandalf tell you?"  
  
"It was... a warning. Barely a note, really. It said only, 'Fell omens from the west. Stay safe and be prepared.'"  
  
Bilbo swallowed hard. "Prepared for what?"  
  
Shaking his head, his father stood up and offered him a hand, saying, "I don't know. But I don't intended to wait around and do nothing until trouble rears its ugly head. My duty is the protection of the Shire, and protect it I will. By any means necessary."  
  
Bilbo was pulled to his feet abruptly, leaving his head a bit addled. He blinked at his father's serious expression. "Erebor? That's why? They're to serve as our protection?"  
  
"Yes. I failed the hobbits of the Shire during the fell winter. If I can spare another tragedy, I will. This alliance with Erebor is important. It's not just a petty whim of mine. I ask you to realize that."  
  
"I..." Bilbo began, head swimming with new found anxiety, "Of course. Necessary evils and all that."  
  
Bungo seemed to consider that, staring at Bilbo through worried eyes, before shaking himself and donning a small smile. "I don't want you to be concerned about this. After all, I believe you have enough on your mind. I would ask you to be courteous to our upcoming guests, but Yavanna knows if you've any of your mother in you, you'll be making trouble for them before they even arrive."  
  
Bilbo snorted, about to object before his father's words caught up with him. "Them? As in more than one?"  
  
"Yes," Bungo said, tone lighter, "the Princes of Erebor and their company. Dwarrows who you are familiar with, I believe."  
  
Bilbo felt a smile alight his face and despite everything, he felt happier. "You mean Bofur? Bifur? Nori and Ori?"  
  
"Ah, yes, those were the names. Which were the ones who depleted our brandy reserves on the night of your coming of age celebration?"  
  
Bilbo laughed and said, "I'm certain that was mostly Bofur's doing. But... you're allowing their return?"  
  
His father clapped his hands together, shaking the dirt from his gloves and stared down at them. "Yes. I do... regret keeping them from you for so long. I... I had hoped your friends' arrival could bring you some comfort, at least. I realized the stress of all this—choosing a husband in such a short time—"  
  
"What?" Bilbo asked, head cutting up sharply. He was receiving so much new information, it was making his head spin. "Choosing... I thought it was already decided, I—I am to marry a dwarf, am I not?"  
  
Bungo nodded, a puzzled frown on his face. "There are two princes of Erebor, my son. I thought, perhaps, you would appreciate being able to choose between them."  
  
At Bilbo's incredulous expression, Bungo continued, "their names, I am told are Thorin and Frerin. You... didn't know?"  
  
Bilbo flushed, embarrassed and stuttered out, "well it's not as if I've had much cause to be overtly interested in Erebor's affairs before today, now have I? Even mother never mentioned it when I talked to her—she told me of myths and legends and..."  
  
Bilbo trailed off, pensive frown on his face. "Have you... even told her? She seemed... confused as to why I was suddenly asking if she knew anything of Erebor, now that I think about it."  
  
Bungo's reply was not forthcoming. Bilbo blinked at him in disbelief before balling his hands into fists. "You haven't told her."  
  
It wasn't a question, ground out so quietly it was almost inaudible, but he knew his father had heard from his nearly imperceptible flinch. "You haven't told _her_ ," he said again, his voice like steel.  
  
Bilbo felt a bitter anger swell in his stomach which only grew as his father schooled his features, setting his mouth into a thin line. "I don't want her to worry. About anything. She needs rest, not something to fret about."  
  
Bilbo's loud scoff echoed in the large yard, harsh and cold. "Are you—I can't _believe_ you, trying to keep something like this from her! You have no right! What will you do when she discovers a son-in-law, out of the blue? You can't possibly expect me to believe you're doing this for her—"  
  
"Of course, I'm doing this for her!" his father shouted, voice ragged yet still permeating the heavy air, "it's always been for her! Why else would I do anything?"  
  
"It makes a terrible kind of sense you would do this," Bilbo spat, his hands shaking in fists at his sides. "You've always avoided taking responsibility for your actions when you could help it, arguing for the greater good trying to convince yourself of the same, never admitting mistakes—"  
  
"Me? What about _you?"_ Bungo snapped, face pale and twisted in anger. "You don't give a shite about home, or duty, or loyalty! You'd rather run off to Yavanna knows where on some foolish dream that'll get you killed!"  
  
"Have you given up on dreams then, Father?" Bilbo asked mockingly, teeth bared in some inhuman snarl and he hated, absolutely hated what he was saying, that he would even be capable of this, but it was as if he couldn't stop the words from passing through his gritted teeth, as if he wanted a fight, wanted the rush of energy that came with it. "Too busy wasting away in a big, empty palace with a son you hate and a wife who's _dying?"_  
  
Bungo stumbled back as if Bilbo had slapped him, face whiter than Bilbo had ever seen, and suddenly Bilbo was himself again, his jaw dropping, regret and horror tearing at his gut like knives. He opened his mouth to apologize, take it back, but his father's expression had hardened, twisted, unfamiliar and unforgiving. "I will tell your mother when the time is right," he grit out, voice dangerously low, "and in the meantime I will make sure that her son doesn't run off to play adventure the way he's like to do while the kingdom and this family suffers. You have the gall to whine about duty? To speak ill of your mother? You're ungrateful and selfish and no son of mine. You would make light of Belladonna's condition? Mock her anguish? It's your _fault!_ You know it and I know it—Eru, the whole of the Shire knows it! She is dying because of you!"  
  
 _Your fault._  
  
 _You're killing her._  
  
 _You already have._  
  
All of the coursing adrenaline left him in a second and Bilbo's vision seemed to waver as he choked on air and felt tears well up in the corner of his eyes. His father's words made him feel ice cold and light headed, and he dug his nails into his palms. The accusing silence between them felt like an ocean, impenetrable and dark. The numb, clawing ache Bilbo felt did not let up, even as his father's eyes widened as he realized what he said. "Bilbo..." he breathed.  
  
Bilbo shook his head, feeling tears well up from his eyes but so very far from caring. He felt hollowed out somehow, an empty shell. "No," Bilbo heard himself say, tonelessly, blankly, emptily. "No, you're right."  
  
His father made a strange sound, something like a sob, and he reached out his hand, saying, "no, no Bilbo, I didn't—"  
  
But Bilbo stepped back, wrapping his arms around his middle and stared sightlessly at the ground, drowning out whatever else his father had to say because he'd already said what really mattered, what he really believed. Bilbo knew it was his fault. If he'd never left for Rivendell—if he'd never left his family...  
  
Hamfast had told him that his mother had barely eaten or slept since he left. She had been so thin, so frail, and she hadn't had time to properly recover before the winter. His parents had thought him dead. He didn't think—he never would have guessed. But he should have known—his mother knew the dangers of the world better than anyone. He'd only wanted an adventure. Gandalf's proposal had enchanted him, but he had known his parents would never accept it. He should have told them the truth, he should have—if he had they might have—

  
He had told his parents that Gandalf had invited him on a small outing. An _outing_ , like all they would do was gallivant through the woods for an hour or two. Instead, he didn't come home for half a year. Gods, how foolish he'd been. All he could hear was the deafening, rushing thump of his heart in his throat and his body, it didn't feel his anymore. It felt wrong. Displaced. He could recognize he was shaking, could see his father's frantic face in front of him, warm hands running down his arms, but he couldn't react, not really. All he knew with overwhelming certainty was that the guilt was like drowning, tearing at his seams, pressing incessantly against his lungs. He couldn't breathe, he could tell that much, the rush of air between his lips was thin and scarce. His father's face blurred in front of him as his hand snaked to his pocket, unconsciously searching for some semblance of comfort. His fingers closed around cool metal and he sighed. Breathing came easier and his vision focused again, and he saw his father's face pale in front of his own, his mouth working rapidly. But Bilbo couldn't seem to hear anything except a low humming, a continuous drone that soothed his nerves.  
  
 _You don't need him,_ something at the back of his mind whispered.  
  
Bilbo squinted at his father's face, mind muddled, yet, he felt almost... calm. _We don't need anyone,_ it whispered again.  
  
He swallowed against the thudding in his throat as the voice grew louder, along with the humming.  
  
 _Let us in._  
  
 _You are ours._  
  
 _Get rid of him. He hurts us._  
  
 _..._  
  
 _We should kill him._  
  
Yanking his hand away from his pocket as if the ring had burned him, his surroundings instantly returned to normal. Sound collapsed in on him from all sides. His own shallow breaths, crickets chirping, and his father, loudest of all, "—ilbo! Bilbo, are you with me? Are you alright?"  
  
Bilbo furrowed his brow and looked at his father in confusion. "I'm... fine," he heard himself say, dazedly.  
  
Bungo stepped back, seeming equal parts relieved and worried. He opened his mouth once, frowned, and said, "I didn't mean it, Bilbo, any of it. I just... things are always easier with someone to blame, but it is no one's fault. I wasn't thinking clearly, I spoke in anger—Bilbo, I... I'm sorry."  
  
Bilbo turned away, mind whirling and stomach rolling. "I need to go to bed," he said softly, distantly.  
  
He walked briskly towards the door, not looking back when his father called his name. The trip to his chambers was a blur; his body was working automatically. Barreling through the door, he immediately ripped the ring from his pocket and hurled it across the room with a choked cry. He heard the clink of it as it hit the wall, then the floor, and the sound echoed in his ears, ringing, mocking. He believed his body was shaking, but there was a sharp pounding in his temples that made everything fuzzy and muddled—he couldn't entirely be sure of anything. His hands flew to his mouth as he tried to quiet his sobs: harsh, panicked things that wracked his entire body and made his head ache. Sinking to the ground in the corner opposite where the ring lay, he wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his face in them, trying to forget the sound of the sickeningly sweet voice that haunted his thoughts.


	5. Old Aches and New Grudges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter we've all been waiting for. *rubs hands together*

"Face it, Thorin. We're lost."  
  
"Be silent, Frerin."  
  
"I'm fairly certain this situation might've been avoided had you not let the others leave without us."  
  
"It's amusing that you think I _let_ them do anything."  
  
"You are the Prince of Erebor, are you not?"  
  
"Are you not as well?'  
  
"What I'm getting at is, you might've just ordered them to stay."  
  
"I assumed they would wish to meet their acquaintances as soon as possible. I thought we would find our way relatively quickly."  
  
"And telling both Dwalin and Balin to scout ahead and send word of our arrival—that was just out of your hands, was it?"  
  
"That was your doing."  
  
"Oh, yes... well, all the same, let's not point fingers—"  
  
"Perhaps, and this is just a thought, you might help me navigate this forsaken place as opposed to blaming me for everything?" Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Already, he and Frerin had been wandering around the Shire aimlessly for almost an hour, trying to locate the elusive "Bag End" where they were intended to meet the King. "I don't see how we're expected to find the place," Thorin grumbled. "It's all just hills."  
  
"They live inside the hills, dunderhead."  
  
Thorin scowled. "Why would they do that?"  
  
Frerin rolled his eyes and pointed at a large grassy mound to their left, specifically the door and windows adorning the side and the hint of a chimney top poking up from the peak. "See?" he asked, with a raised eyebrow. "I think they call them smials or something."  
  
Thorin gave him a measured look. "How do you know this?"  
  
Frerin hid a smile beneath the scruff of his beard and began to walk forward, saying, "I do read things, Thorin. I'm not completely clueless about the world. Honestly, if someone asked you about the history of Ereborian economics you could go on for ages, but one question of elves or hobbits'll have you stumped."  
  
Thorin let out an irritated noise and pushed past his brother. "You're a child!" Frerin called out to his back, and Thorin could hear the grin in his voice.

  
Thorin rolled his eyes and made no response. At this point he had even considered asking for directions, but it seemed every hobbit he made eye contact with thought he and Frerin were going to eat them or something equally ridiculous, judging by the suspicious, hostile glances they all continued to send. Thorin had actually tried to approach one of them a little while ago, but the little creature's eyes had widened and he had scampered into his home as if a warg were on his heels. Clearly, these hobbits were not overly fond of visitors. Distantly, he registered Frerin's footsteps, dutifully following behind.   
  
What kind of place was this, that people of another race were treated as plague? _They_ were the strangers, Thorin thought gloomily, these hobbits of the Shire. Not him. They were the ones who were different, all frightened and cowardly and rude. What he would not give to be out of the street and away from their prying eyes. What would this Bag End even look like? How could he tell it apart from the thousand other hobbit dwellings which looked exactly the bloody same?   
  
Groaning, Thorin put his head in his hands and tromped around a corner. The instant he turned, he heard a sharp intake of breath and then he collided with someone, who fell to the ground. Thorin couldn't see who it was—something had burst up into the air and gotten into his eyes, making them burn terribly. He blinked rapidly, growling at the stinging pain, and looked down confusedly at the now white landscape beneath him. He looked down at himself and his eyes widened when he saw that he too was painted white. His tongue darted out and he licked his lips automatically and he tasted... was that... flour? From the figure at his feet, he heard a whispered curse which sounded suspiciously like, "by the Green Lady's knickers."  
  
"I... I beg your... pardon?" Thorin mumbled, as he watched the ghost-white figure struggle to its feet.   
  
Squinting, he could he the creature was a hobbit clutching a now empty bag, and one who looked very displeased, with his bright eyes narrowed and flour-coated nose scrunched up. It seemed the hobbit had been more affected by the flour than Thorin—while it appeared he had only a smattering on his tunic, the hobbit looked as if his head had been doused in it, looking comically like a annoyed spirit.

Thorin was struck by a familiarity of his features, though he was quite certain he had never actually met one of the Shire-folk before today. The hobbit glared mightily while Thorin stared, a bit at a loss for what to do, and he made the mistake of snorting when the hobbit sneezed while attempting to maintain his look of disdain. He couldn't help it, the hobbit just looked so endearing and—wait. Endearing?

The hobbit's head snapped up when he heard Thorin's snort and his glare intensified. For a horrifying moment, Thorin thought it was because the hobbit knew what he was thinking. The hobbit's nose twitched and Thorin's eyes followed the movement. It was an attractive nose, slightly upturned and smaller than any dwarf's... Thorin swallowed when he realized the hobbit was still looking at him with narrowed eyes. It was rather like facing off with an angry rabbit. After clearing his throat brought no response, Thorin blurted out, mind scattered, "you should watch where you step, hobbit."  
  
The hobbit's eyes grew large, his mouth dropping open almost comically. "I'm sorry? Did I hear you correctly?" he stuttered out, hands pausing from where they had been shaking flour out of his curly hair, to no great success.  
  
Thorin leaned forward, concerned. "I said, you need to watch where you're going," he said slowly. "Did you hit your head when you fell? Are you alright?"  
  
The hobbit batted Thorin's hands away and said, tetchily, "I'm fine, no thanks to you."  
  
"Me?" he murmured, incredulous, and he did not draw his eyes away from the absolutely fascinating—no, insufferable—creature in front of him even as he heard Frerin come upon the scene and noted, with exasperation, his brother's strange, muffled laughter. "You think this is my fault?"  
  
The hobbit placed his hands on his hips and without missing a beat, exclaimed, "yes! Yes, I certainly do think that!" The hobbit's gaze shifted to Frerin and his eyes narrowed.

  
Frerin's attempts at schooling his expression were admirable, but not enough to lessen the wrath of the small hobbit. Frerin held up his hands placatingly, coming to stand by Thorin's side. "Now, Thorin, and Master Hobbit, hold on a minute—"   
  
"Thorin?" the hobbit repeated, eyes boring into Thorin's own.  
  
"That is my name, yes," Thorin grit out. Why were his eyes so familiar? And, Mahal, they didn't have a particular color did they—one moment green like the hills and the next as cool blue as the ancient pools of Erebor—  
  
Durin's beard.  
  
The hobbit opened his mouth, closed it, and then sighed. "Course it is," he muttered. "And I suppose you're Frerin?" he asked, and Frerin nodded in reply, a bemused look on his face..   
  
The hobbit blew out a breath between clenched teeth, expression pained for a moment. "Listen, I think we've all just got off on the wrong foot, so how about I show you where we could get cleaned up and—"  
  
"I don't need your help," Thorin growled, because he needed to get away from the hobbit as soon as possible—there was something about him, something that made his stomach flutter uncomfortably.   
  
"Well, I wouldn't go that far—" Frerin began, but Thorin put a hand on his chest.  
  
"We," he grit out, "do not need your help."  
  
To Thorin’s annoyance, the hobbit merely raised an eyebrow and stared. "You are the princes from Erebor, correct? Where are the rest of you? Or do you mean to tell me it's just you?"   
  
Thorin thought he detected a note of disappointment at that, and he couldn't help but bristle at the implication. The fussy creature should have counted himself lucky to be in their presence. He made to answer, a scathing reprimand on the tip of his tongue, when Frerin spoke animatedly.  
  
"Yes!" Frerin said with a grin, stepping in front of Thorin. "Yes, we are King Thrain's sons and we seem to have misplaced," he shot Thorin a withering look which Thorin frowned at, "our company. Would you be so kind as to direct us to Bag End? We'd be eternally grateful, wouldn't we, Thorin?"  
  
Thorin clenched his teeth and said nothing, steadfastly ignoring the hobbit's piercing gaze. The hobbit's eyes flitted from Frerin to Thorin, finally settling on Thorin. The hobbit seemed to search his face, before he almost visibly deflated. He let out a long sigh which hit Thorin like a punch in the gut, and he just looked so tired, it made Thorin feel inexplicably guilty. Frerin's elbow connected sharply with Thorin's side. Unfortunately, Thorin saw the hobbit's eyes catch the motion. The hobbit snorted and turned on his heel. "Follow me, then," he called behind him. "I have to stop by my friend Griffo's shop and explain why I don't have the flour I promised I'd deliver him," he shot an unreadable look at Thorin, whose jaw tightened, "and why it is no longer where it's supposed to be. But hopefully it won't be so long a delay for your highnesses."   
  
Thorin scowled as the hobbit turned. For all his use of titles the halfling managed to make the address sound like an insult. Despite his displeasure, he and Frerin followed in relative silence, until his brother seemed to decide that their companion was far enough ahead that he would not hear. "Durin's beard, Thorin, can you not be civil at all? We've not been here for half a day and already you're picking fights," Frerin whispered.

  
Wordlessly, Thorin jerkily gestured at the thin white powder coating the front of his tunic and, with his luck, his face, as well. Frerin smirked. "I think it looks rather fetching on you. You actually look a bit like Balin, with that newly white beard. No, wait, it's a good look," Frerin laughed as Thoin rubbed at his face furiously with his sleeve.   
  
Thorin growled, "I should have you beheaded."  
  
"But oh, how the people would weep for me," Frerin moaned, throwing a hand over his forehead.   
  
They lapsed into silence again, barely a minute, really, before Frerin murmured, "wonder what he's like. The prince, that is."

Thorin thought he heard their guide splutter on a cough, but he seemed to far in front of them to hear their conversation, so he ignored it. "If he's anything like these other _halflings,_ " Thorin said, a sudden, overwhelming disdain sweeping over him at the thought of their "welcome" to the Shire, "then I suspect he will be very unpleasant indeed. Probably narrow-minded and ignorant like the rest."

At that, he _definitely_ heard a scoff come from the hobbit, and so, raising his head, he asked, barely keeping the animosity from his tone, "oh, you have an opinion on the matter? Do enlighten us. What is your prince like?"

The hobbit whirled around at once, face a bright shade of red, stark against the white. "I'll tell you one thing," he said, voice surprisingly even. "He cannot stand those who are egotistical or self-absorbed, so concerned with themselves they give no thought to the feelings of others."

"Um... well, I—" Frerin began tentatively, but Thorin could not hold back his outburst.

"Mahal," Thorin seethed, glaring back at the hobbit whose tiny hands were balled into fists. "He sounds the pompous sort, doesn't he, to parade around thinking himself worthy to cast judgement on others."

"Only when they are so _obviously_ flawed that anyone with eyes could see it!" the hobbit shot back, glowering.

"You—" Thorin began furiously, but Frerin pushed him hard, cutting him off and very nearly knocking him off his feet in the process.

"Is this _really_ the impression you want to make?" Frerin hissed, looking as serious as Thorin had ever seen him. "We are in the middle of the damned street. Have you any idea what a spectacle you make? People are staring."

Thorin swallowed hard when he realized Frerin was right. He saw curious faces peering out of windows, hobbits trying to look inconspicuous, but very obviously listening. He saw their guide notice them as well, saw him roll his eyes and to Thorin's shock, he addressed them directly. "Find your gossip elsewhere," he said, raising his voice. "These dwarrows are guests in the Shire and will be treated as such."

Perhaps even more surprising was that they seemed to listen, dutifully, if somewhat reluctantly, going back to their business. Thorin looked back at the hobbit, but he had already begun to move again without a word. Gritting his teeth, Thorin followed, falling into step with him, ignoring his brother's noise of protest. "So, this is how you treat your visitors?" Thorin asked, giving the hobbit a sidelong glance.

"Don't push your luck."

Despite himself, Thorin was surprised at the halfling's boldness. "What will your prince say, I wonder, when he discovers you have defended him at his guest's expense?"

At that, the hobbit actually snorted. "Well, I guess you'll know when you _meet_ him, won't you?"

Thorin, shocked, stopped walking for a beat, nearly letting Frerin bump into him, before he quickened his pace to catch up. "What kind of creature are you," he asked incredulously, forgetting his irritation for the moment, "who would speak so carelessly?"

"What does it matter?" the hobbit replied, stopping in front of what appeared to be a small shop. "I am a means to an end for you. Only a _halfling_."

He yanked open the door, sending a final glance back. "For the record, your highnesses," the hobbit said, "I am not _half_ of anything."

The hobbit entered, leaving Thorin standing there with his mouth hanging open, and he felt a rush of irritation when Frerin chuckled behind him. "I like him," his brother drawled, clapping Thorin on the back. "He doesn't seem to care about your overtly menacing exterior."

Thorin sent a furious glare his way, and Frerin grinned. "Yes, yes, _that_ , the growling and glowering thing."

Frerin slipped inside as Thorin swiped at him half-heartedly. Glaring at the brightly colored door did nothing to improve his mood, so he stalked in after his brother, cursing under his breath. The air inside was warm and pastries lined the window to Thorin's right, each seemingly newly made. Why, he wondered, was everything in the Shire all bright colors and rounded edges?

Their guide had removed his garish red jacket and yellow waistcoat, leaving a loose-fitting tunic which bared his neck. The skin of his throat was smooth and pale, and Thorin found his eyes drawn to it. Such unmarked skin, a contradiction to his own, scarred and worn. These halflings were so soft—so delicate. They had not known hardship or tragedy. They had not known war, what it was to fight for their own, the bond between brothers-in-arms. Instead, Shire-folk seemed obsessed with trivial things and he felt a rush of anger at the thought that _Erebor_ needed _them_.

He studied the hobbit's form with an almost morbid curiosity. As the hobbit used a washcloth to rub at his hair, Thorin could now see the color was a strange auburn, glinting red in the light streaming in from the window. His profile was, in that moment, so familiar to Thorin it pulled at something in his chest—he was sure he'd seen this hobbit before. The hobbit glanced at him in the next moment, with his damned indecipherable eyes, and Thorin quickly drew his gaze away.

He grudgingly contented himself with glaring silently at the floor for what felt like hours, rolling his eyes at the way Frerin seemed to flit from pastry to pastry, asking inane questions which the hobbit answered distractedly. Sighing, Thorin pushed himself upright from where he had been leaning against the wall. "We do not have time to satisfy your petty needs," he said, taking a perverse satisfaction in the way the halfling's hands seemed to tighten their grip in the cloth he used to wipe his face. "We were expected at Bag End ages ago. I would not appear to be a negligent guest."

"Honestly, I still don't quite understand why your presence is necessary."

"That is none of your concern," Thorin grit out. "You—"

He was cut off by a towel launched at his face. He managed to catch it, his reflexes acting for him, but he could fixate on nothing but the fact the halfling hadn't even _looked_ at him, the infuriating thing, had merely let out a flippant, "wipe that flour off, if you're so concerned about appearances."

An almost blinding rage gripped him then, and he threw the cloth to the ground, spitting out, "you insolent little—"

But he stuttered to a stop, because the hobbit finally faced him, a low burning anger in his own eyes, and Thorin thought, _oh._

The halfling was clean now, excepting a spot of flour which had stubbornly remained on his shirt, but Thorin's mind could only process one thing. He _did_ know that face, those _eyes_ , because he had seen them before. And suddenly, all of the breath in Thorin's lungs left him and he felt unsteady on his feet. He _knew_ the face staring back at him, recognized it's features from smooth strokes of charcoal on travel-worn parchment. Had he honestly never really _looked?_ Their guide had actually been—

"Bilbo?" Thorin belatedly heard called from the next room. "Is that you?"

"Bilbo?" he heard Frerin mutter, a wavering question in his voice, before a heavy-set hobbit with a red face made his way into the room, carrying a precarious pile of bowls and whisks in his arms.

"Did you get the—" the other hobbit started, but he stopped when he noticed Thorin and Frerin, eyes widening fractionally.

"Um... Bilbo," the newcomer murmured, staring at Thorin, "what are these dwarves—"

"Dwarrows," he heard the hobbit— _Bilbo_ , Bilbo _Baggins_ —correct absentmindedly, and Thorin could not quite comprehend the situation with his mind spinning like this, could not understand the way their guide— _Baggins_ —had...

Mahal, he had _tricked_ them, _laughed_ at them, and he had the gall to act as the one wronged.

"Wait... are _you_ —are you him?" Frerin asked, and when Thorin looked over to him he saw his brother was wide-eyed and pale, and that, above all, made his blood boil. "Are you the Prince of the Shire?"

"I'll tell you what he is," Thorin said lowly before Bilbo could reply, his voice surprisingly even. "He's nothing but a liar. A deceitful, useless _halfling_."

Bilbo, sputtering, tried to interrupt, but all of Thorin's pent up frustration burst out of him like water gushing from a dam, all-consuming and overwhelming. "Is this a _game_ to you?" he hissed, his mouth twisting when he saw the hobbit's face grow white. "You uproot us from our home and then mock us behind our backs—"

"You never even _asked_ ," Bilbo shouted, eyes wide but expression determined, "what my name was. I would have gladly given it, had the thought even crossed your minds. I did not mean to come upon you, but I saw it as an opportunity to know you as you are, who you _really are,_ without pretense." He laughed then, a sharp bitter sound which seemed to hang in the air. "While I expected the worst when I was told of your arrival, I could not have expected you."

Thorin stepped back, feeling for all the world as if he had been slapped. Shame overwhelmed him, but still he felt anger brimming at the edges of his skin. Anger won out, as it always did. He was not the one to blame. Thorin had a sharp remark ready on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it down when he registered one word of the hobbit’s reply. "Told?" he repeated, voice tense.

Bilbo blinked twice, frowning, as if thrown off balance slightly by the shift of topic, before the confusion in his eyes cleared. "Yes, told. You actually presumed I conspired to bring you and your brother here? That I would take pleasure in ripping you from your home? Does your arrogance know no bounds? You're not the only one unhappy with this turn of events. I did not _want_ you here. I did not ask for this," he divulged, face stony.

Thorin snapped his mouth shut. Was it possible that he had so badly misjudged him? He shook his head, frustrated. "You and yours, halflings and kings of halflings—it makes no difference," he grumbled. "The only reason I stand here is out of duty to _my_ kingdom—"

" _Stop_. Just stop," Frerin interjected, voice wavering in a way that made Thorin's stomach drop. "Both of you, just—stop. This is doing us no good."

At Frerin's voice, Bilbo seemed to deflate, tiredness in his eyes more visible as he hunched his shoulders. Thorin felt all vestiges of anger leave him in an exhale. He immediately felt guilt like a crushing weight in his gut, and he glanced at Bilbo, who avoided his eyes. "You're right," the hobbit prince said, and his voice was such an unnatural monotone, so different from the way he had spoke moments earlier and somehow so _wrong_ , that it sent a shiver down Thorin's spine. "Prince Frerin, I apologize for any discomfort our... disagreement may have caused. I assure you, I meant no slight to you. Prince Thorin, I offer my sincerest regrets that you have found myself and the Shire so lacking to your taste.” Thorin could not help but wince at that, at the bland way the hobbit had said it, but Bilbo continued, “Griffo?" he said, turning to the other hobbit in the room, who looked the very picture of uncomfortable. "I'm sorry—I couldn't—the flour—"

"Ah, don't fret, Bilbo. I can see there was some sort of... incident," Griffo replied with a sympathetic smile, eyes glancing to Thorin for only an instant. Thorin felt his face flush, and he swiped the towel from the floor and set to wiping off his tunic, a low burning anger making the movements jerky.

Something in Bilbo's expression crumbled, but his voice remained even. "I could get someone to fetch some more for you. I won't have time to go back today—"

"Bilbo," Griffo murmured, and to Thorin's surprise the older hobbit placed a placating hand on his arm. "It's fine. I'll have a bit of time tomorrow. Granted, I'll have to speed up the baking process a bit, but I promise you, the Queen will get her cake."

Thorin froze, towel halfway raised to his face, before exchanging a glance with Frerin, who widened his eyes at Thorin pointedly. "Thank you," Bilbo breathed, giving the other hobbit a hug. "I know she'll love anything you make and I—you don't know how much this means to me."

Griffo pulled back with a soft smile. "Anything for you, Bilbo. I would offer to take your guests up to Bag End, but I have a couple more orders to fill—"

"Oh, no," Bilbo exclaimed, gaze shifting between Thorin and Frerin a bit warily. "no that's alright, I'm perfectly capable. And I'm anxious to see if the rest of the party from Erebor has arrived."

At this, he shot a tentative, questioning glance to Thorin, who cleared his throat. "I believe they should await us there," he managed, wincing internally at how stilted his voice sounded.

"Great," Bilbo said, and though the answer sounded a bit strained to Thorin's ears, his smile at the news seemed genuine and bright. Thorin found himself staring for longer than was appropriate, but it was as if he could not help it. The smile somehow transformed the hobbit's face, made him seem more radiant and made it difficult to draw his eyes away.

Frerin finally spoke up, bringing Thorin back to his senses, and he hastily looked away when he noticed Bilbo's cautiously curious eyes studying him. "I think, it would be best to put all previous misgivings in the past," Frerin said, voice a bit too cheery for present circumstances, but Thorin could respect his effort all the same. His brother had not changed—Frerin was always quick to forgive and could never understand why others were not always able to do the same. It reminded Thorin precisely how young Frerin really was, and when he pictured his brother married off and alone in this place, it made his stomach drop. "Shall we go?"

Bilbo nodded slowly, looking almost suspicious for a moment, and with a goodbye to Griffo, led them outside once more. Frerin brushed past Thorin on his way out and hissed, " _apologize_ ," with a long-suffering expression.

Pausing to rake a hand through his hair, Thorin sighed. As much as he did not want to admit it, he might have been a tad... harsh. Mahal, what exactly had he said? Swallowing his pride, Thorin made his way over to where Bilbo waited for them, shifting his weight almost imperceptibly from foot to foot. "Master Baggins," he forced out, "I—I would take back—"

Bilbo raised a hand with a tired, pained expression. "Please, Prince Thorin, don't strain yourself. I believe you've made your position and your feelings on the matter quite clear. Let us just be civil with one another in polite company. As of now, I'm certain that is the most we could achieve."

Thorin grit his teeth at the rejection, but managed a curt nod. "As you wish. More manageable than false amiability, I'd imagine," he ground out.

Bilbo smiled wryly, shaking his head and huffing out, "precisely my point."

Thorin saw Frerin look skyward and say something under his breath behind Bilbo. Thorin sent him a glare in return. The hobbit had not accepted his apology, and he would not be the first to offer another. "Where exactly is Bag End, then?" Frerin piped up.

"It's at the center of the Shire. So, from here, a fairly short walk," Bilbo sighed, turning away from Thorin. "I'm really not sure how you missed it," he continued, leading them up the path.

At that, Frerin chuckled. "Oh, my brother could get lost anywhere."

"Well," Bilbo began, with an unreadable glance back at Thorin. "I'm sure these surroundings are not as you're used to. The unknown is always difficult to navigate."

"I suppose Thorin's a special case. The only place he seems to have any sense of direction is down in the mines. There, he could lead you out in pitch darkness," Frerin regaled.

"Are you really so skilled?" Bilbo asked Thorin, with what seemed like genuine curiosity.

Thorin looked away, put all his effort into keeping his voice even. There was something strange about the way the hobbit looked at him, like he could see into the core of him, and it unnerved him. "My brother exaggerates," he said, "on both sides of the extreme."

"Oh, so you also deny a poor direction sense? How long were you two wandering around, then?"

"Merely—" Thorin began, but Frerin interrupted with a gleeful smile.

"An hour, _at least._ "

"No."

"Yes."

"I cannot believe it," Bilbo chuckled. "It's honestly right over there," he continued, pointing.

Thorin looked over, but what he saw did not look particularly different from the other smials. It was a grander hill, certainly, adorned with more windows and furnishings and the like. It was much larger, if he was truthful, but not quite what he would have imagined as home for a king. "That's it?" Thorin blurted, cursing himself the instant the words left his mouth. "I mean, that's not to say—what I mean is—"

Bilbo watched him splutter with a raised eyebrow. "I forget, dwarrows are swayed by what they see. It's why you are all gems and gold and fine, extravagant designs."

"We are not nearly as material as you seem to believe," Thorin argued, disgruntled.

"That's not what I meant," Bilbo said softly, and Thorin forgot his ire for a moment, because everything was that indiscernible color of Bilbo's eyes, all earnest and honest. "Not everything is as it appears to be, Thorin."

Bilbo turned with a small smile and made his way up to the large green door which served as the entrance to Bag End. Thorin didn't quite know what to do with the way Bilbo said his name, exasperated but at the same time touched by something warmer, something _kind_ , that threw him completely off balance. He didn't know what to do with this person, who he was irritated beyond belief with one minute and fascinated by the next. Thorin followed his brother absently, mind whirring, mouth opening and closing in some dismal attempt to get the last word. He might've made more of a mess by saying the wrong thing without thinking, _again_ , if Bilbo hadn't spoken when he did, jolting him from his frenzied thoughts.

Grinning widely, that bright, _real_ grin that Thorin had found himself _looking forward_ to of all things, Bilbo opened the door with theatrical flourish. "Welcome to Bag End, your highnesses," Bilbo said, and Thorin's jaw _dropped_.


	6. Masterpieces and Misgivings

[Excerpt from _The Shire: A History_ ]

_It is a fact, well-known by Shire-folk, but less so by other races, that Bag End, which adorns itself as the central jewel of the Shire and as one of its only symbols of great status, is one of the Great Wonders of Middle Earth. There is no official title, but it is undoubtedly so, as there is none it's equal in terms of design in all Arda. There are few, now, who claim to have an actual memory of its creation, at least in the sense it is known today, but the story is veritably commonplace in the Shire, especially among fauntlings. It is not just that the physical aspect is appealing—the appearance on the outside is indisputably impressive, but it is also deceiving; for it is what it holds within its walls that is most shocking._

_The dwelling has its roots with the first ruler of the Shire, Balbo Baggins, who was elected to the position as according a consensus of all who would be governed. The first king, and also first of his line, was a fair, modest hobbit, who addressed the issues of his subjects personally, allowing them to meet him in the comfort and familiarity of a hobbit hole: Bag End. At the time, the establishment mirrored the dwellings around it. King Balbo worked as his subjects did, with as much fervor and with the same love of home shared by all around him. Little is known of the inner workings of the king's life itself, as Balbo was a very private hobbit._

_The majority of his rule was uneventful in terms of war or strife, excepting the year 1189, when a great famine swept through the Shire. There was no rainfall, only a scorching heat which beat down on the land. Nothing grew in the fields for the better part of eight months. The heat of the sun made the land brittle and dry, and fires became one of the greater dangers. Many hobbits lost their homes to accidental flames turned deadly infernos. Furthermore, the hobbits of the Shire faced a reality which had been foreign to them: starvation. King Balbo worked tirelessly to organize the rationing of food and water, implementing a system in which each family received a certain amount of supplies each month. Gandalf the Grey, the maïar, learned of the hobbits’ plight and traveled to assist the king. At the time, Gandalf was a stranger to the Shire, but King Balbo treated him as a welcome guest and spared the most hospitality he could given the circumstances. The wizard remained a steady presence, assisting in the relief process. In a year, the danger was over, the annual rains revitalized the earth, and, rather surprisingly, there were no casualties._

_The story goes that Gandalf, so taken with the king’s kindness towards him, even in such a time of crisis, deemed Balbo worthy of a gift which would demonstrate the value of the Shire and its people. Gandalf the Grey wished to change Bag End, make it a grand tribute to what he deemed “the courage of hobbits.” Balbo initially refused, claiming he did not want to be rewarded for acting as he thought was right, and he did not think it appropriate. The maïar convinced the king that it was for the benefit of his people, establishing the Shire as a true kingdom and allowing the hobbit-folk a symbol of their most ardently held beliefs. They eventually came to a compromise: Gandalf would proceed with his alteration of Bag End, but leave its appearance to the outside world almost entirely untouched._ “Worth,” _Balbo wrote in a proclamation describing the arrangement,_ “ _our_ worth, should not be determined by towering walls or expensive furnishings. If we are to be scrutinized by others and seen only by objects of excess, what does this say of us? I would not have the worth of the Shire, and the great, tenacious hobbits of it, to be judged in value against the weight of gold. I may be named king, but first and foremost I am a hobbit. Bag End is a hobbit-hole and always will be, and this means good food, a warm hearth, and all the comforts of home.”

_The curious nature of magic is known only by wizards and their kind. That is what other historians would claim, and on many counts I would agree. The hobbits of the Shire, however, have a particular inclination to understand, in their own way, the power of magic and its extent. The fact is, Gandalf did not merely change Bag End; he transformed it. Magic—or whatever great power the maïar have at their disposal—has a way of making impossible things possible. Put in the simplest terms, Bag End’s architecture defies all laws of reality and explanation: it is larger on the inside than it is on the outside. The sheer contradiction of Bag End’s initial appearance and its actuality is staggering. Where its aesthetics remain that of traditional Shire homes, it boasts the size of a palace._

_It is rumored that when King Balbo realized the extent of the internal renovations and the liberties Gandalf had taken, he stole the wizard’s hat and hid it from him. This is why, some hobbits say, Gandalf the Grey’s hat in this day and age is of a color which does not quite match his robes. Nevertheless, King Balbo used the newly spacious Bag End to offer lodging to the hobbits who lost their homes in the terrible fires, insisting that they stay as long as they wished._

**

Thorin could do nothing but stare. He was sure his expression was one of comical shock, if Bilbo’s somewhat smug grin was any indication, but he believed it was warranted. Bag End...

Bag End was impossible. It's entrance sprawled further than it could have, leading to dozens of rounded doors, some of which were open and revealed rooms beyond. A glance up proved _more_ , another level of it above his head and who knew if it extended further. It was... It could not be. The air was warmer than it had been outside and carried a faint scent of spices which made Thorin’s mouth water. Thorin took a step forward. “How...” he murmured, the question falling from his lips almost unconsciously.

"Yes, that's the general reaction for newcomers," Bilbo claimed, a sort of triumphant air about him.

Frerin whistled, and when Thorin looked over he was wide eyed. "Mahal, Prince Bilbo, this is incredible.”

"Thank you, Prince Frerin. Though I cannot take credit for it."

“How exactly—” Thorin tried again, but he was interrupted by Ori, who appeared to have been waiting for them, perched on the first step of the wide staircase which dominated the center of the room.

“Bilbo!” the young dwarf exclaimed, snapping his book shut and racing toward them.

“Ori,” Thorin heard Bilbo breathe. “Yavanna, are you a sight for sore eyes!”

They met in a hug, bright grins on both of their faces. Ori brought his forehead to Bilbo’s, more gently than Thorin supposed he would with his brothers, and Thorin could not quite help the strange twist in his chest when he heard Bilbo’s happy laugh. The sound was so different from the scoffs and snorts from before, and somehow this sound, all carefree and sudden, seemed to fit him so much better. He remembered what Ori had told him, that early morning before the dying fire, about Bilbo Baggins and laughter, and he thought, _oh._

Thorin cleared his throat suddenly, almost unconsciously, and Ori looked over at him with a small smile as he and Bilbo drew apart. “I'm glad you've finally arrived, Prince Thorin, Prince Frerin,” he said, nodding at them in turn.

“Well,” Frerin began with a quirk of his eyebrows, “funny story actually—”

“Are the others all here, then?” Thorin interrupted, without so much as a glance to Frerin to let him know he was quite finished hearing that particular tale told.

“Yes,” Ori said, nodding, “they're waiting for us in the parlor.”

“Are they really back? All of you, are you really...?” Bilbo asked hopefully, turning back to Ori.

“Yes,” Ori responded with a bright smile, “yes, we have all come back, Bofur and Nori, Bifur, and my brother, Dori.”

“Your older brother has come too? I must say, I did not expect that. Not that I'd not love to meet him, mind you.”

Ori chuckled, gloved fingers tapping at the book in his hands. “I–I believe he said something along the lines of ‘I should like to meet the hobbit who has stolen my brothers’ affections out from under my nose.’ That, and a lot of yelling about how I am far too young to have crossed the Misty Mountains like I did,” Ori said, scrunching up his nose.

“Oh heavens,” Bilbo said, and Thorin thought he could hear a hint of nervousness in his voice. “Does he hold a grudge against me, do you think?”

Ori shook his head with a small smile. “Dori’s all bark; don't take any of his threats seriously. He's more of a mother-hen, if anything.”

“He did fuss over me while we were on the road, now that I think about it,” Frerin piped up, expression thoughtful. “Asking if I'd had enough stew or needed a blanket. It was quite nice actually, since this one couldn't care less,” he said, jerking his head at Thorin.

“There is a reason I do not ask after you every damned day,” Thorin replied dryly, “and that reason is that you never listen to what I say or heed any advice from me.”

“Well, I rather think—” Frerin began, seemingly in the mood for a friendly argument, but Ori interrupted, likely for the best.

“My apologies, your highnesses, but I would not wish to delay supper further. I think it would be best if we made our way to the others.”

“Oh, supper?” Frerin asked, attention immediately peaked.

“I'm sure my father has spared no expense to your welcome,” Bilbo said, and Thorin thought he heard a strange hitch in his voice, but when he looked the hobbit’s expression was even, so he dismissed the idea. “Shall we meet the others then?” Bilbo asked, the small smile returning to his face.

Ori led the way, taking them through a long corridor to their right. Something of Thorin’s silent astonishment must have shown on his face, because Bilbo dropped back to walk beside him and said suddenly, “I believe you were asking about Bag End?” startling Thorin a bit, though he managed to hide it. Thorin shot him a look, but the hobbit’s inquiring expression did not waver.

He did not understand the hobbit. He was so fickle; Bilbo _had_ been angry with him, Thorin was sure of that, and he wondered where that animosity had gone. He was also quite sure _he_ was still angry. Or... Was it anger? He didn't know what to do with this unnamed tension thrumming under his skin, this strange, unnerving energy. It felt not unlike the rush of battle, the warring feelings of fight or flight. But there was no way to run, and there was no enemy he could strike down. Politics would be the battle now, he supposed.

Perhaps, it would be easier if the hobbit he most needed in his good favor was not so utterly irritating and infuriating and indecipherable.

Thorin had tried to apologize, but the hobbit had stubbornly refused to hear it; now, he acted as though it had never happened. Would it be easier if he did as well? Thorin knew the answer to this, but he was not quite ready to turn over, _let_ things happen to him, accept things as they came. This was not who he was, not who he was brought up to be. However, the logical part of his mind told him that this was how it must be, how it might be for the rest of his life, and that he should accept this and _adapt_ like he knew himself capable of. He must resign himself to this place of false politeness and alien customs.

Thorin cast a glance to Frerin, who occupied himself with Ori, and sighed through his nose. Thorin had long since realized that he did not want Frerin to give up his freedom and remain here, in this strange place with these contrary people—his brother was barely of age and, while eager to see and experience, Frerin was certainly not one to be tied down. Instead, Thorin spared a moment to imagine himself _here_ , reigning beside someone he could not hope to understand or predict, and he hated the idea almost instantly. He was not meant for this place, did not fit within its perfectly curved edges and colorful borders. He missed the feeling of steady stone under his feet, an empty ache that reminded him what had been taken from him. “Thorin?” Bilbo asked, his expression almost _concerned_ , and Thorin hated him a bit for that too.

“Yes,” he managed, merely thankful that his voice sounded unaffected by his thoughts. “This place is somewhat perplexing to me, I'll admit.”

"I'm sure," Bilbo chuckled, but the sound seemed mirthless to Thorin's ears. "It must seem impossibly implausible by dwarven standards."

"There are none who have surpassed the expertise of dwarven design and this place is no different," Thorin replied tetchily.

Bilbo, to Thorin's chagrin, merely hummed in reply. "Well, it's true this was not entirely the make of hobbits," he said, shrugging one shoulder. “For as much as the men who come through the Shire now and again like to say so, we are not of fairy blood nor do we have magic. Perfectly plain, you might say.”

Thorin knew magic must have somehow been involved; he was sure if there was a concrete way to compress something large to fit into something small, to trick the senses, then it surely would have been discovered by dwarrows. He would have liked to say that Bag End, evidently being far from the norm in the Shire, somehow seemed less after the revelation, but he was disgruntled to find that the fact did not lessen its quiet charm. Despite this, he could feel a scoff bubbling up from his throat—an almost instinctive reaction to everything here, he noticed—but Bilbo’s sharp eyes carefully assessing his expression stopped him. He wondered, briefly, if Bilbo did not have some ulterior motive in speaking to him, after he had clearly expressed his displeasure. There was something accusing in Bilbo’s stare, and Thorin bristled to think that the hobbit already believed he _knew_ him, knew what he might say and what to do to make him say it, and he swallowed down his initial reaction. Thorin recalled something Ori had told him one day, when the young scribe discussed the Shire. _“For hobbits,”_ Ori had said almost conspiratorially, _“words are a form of warfare.”_

A test, then. Bilbo stared at him like he expected a specific answer, like Thorin’s response would certify some previously held hypothesis, and Thorin could practically see the beginnings of a smug satisfaction on his face already. Did the hobbit think him so gullible that he might be manipulated so easily?

Almost immediately, Thorin had the sudden, ridiculous, insatiable urge to prove the hobbit wrong. “I would not say so,” he said offhandedly, and the brief flash of comical surprise on Bilbo’s face was a treasure in itself. “How is it that hobbits came about this place, then?”

Bilbo didn't not answer for a moment, merely stared at him with a confused frown and a contemplative look in his eyes. Thorin raised his eyebrows after a few seconds of silence, broken only by his brother’s voice up ahead. Bilbo seemed to gather himself, before shaking his head. “Well, it has to do with history I suppose,” he continued after a beat, eyeing Thorin curiously, “though there are many disagreements on what _actually_ happened... But really, the credit of its... unique design mostly goes to Gandalf the Grey. He excels in the more peculiar, eccentric sides of magic, and has a particular flair for the dramatic. It’s why Bag End is rather more... extravagant than necessary. But Gandalf did indeed make it useful as well. All affairs of disputes and issues of law are settled here. And in times of crisis Bag End is set to accommodate everyone in the Shire. Temporarily, at least.”

“I had not realized the wizard was so connected to this place,” Thorin said, after Bilbo looked at him seemingly expecting a response.

“He’s an old friend of my family. Do you know of him?” Bilbo asked curiously.

“I suspect there are few who do not,” Thorin could not help but answer dryly, but at Bilbo’s unimpressed look he added, “though I admit I have never been acquainted with him.”

Bilbo might have responded, but they had entered the room in which their companions awaited, and Bilbo was promptly knocked backwards by a blur of a dwarf—Bofur, Thorin surmised from the hat—accompanied by a shout of Bilbo’s name. Bofur, his arms wrapped tightly around Bilbo, exclaimed, popping his head up, “what’s this, then? Two years I’ve not seen ye and you’re still as thin as a stick! As a hobbit, you should be ashamed o’ yourself!”

“Still more hobbit than you’ll ever be! And I have had quite enough of being thrown to the ground today, thank you,” Bilbo huffed, but his words held no real spite and he spoke through a blinding smile.

Thorin caught Dwalin’s eye over Bofur’s head and frowned at his friend’s raised eyebrow. Thorin made his way over to him, seeing as Bilbo was now engaged, and ignored the strange tightness in his chest which he dismissed as nerves. "Remind me to give you a displeased welcome next time. With a practiced scowl an’ everything," he heard Bofur chuckle.

“Nice of you to join us,” Dwalin greeted him, inclining his head. “What took you so long?”

Thorin opened his mouth to answer, but he was cut off by a voice across the room. “He got us lost!” Frerin exclaimed, and Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Lost? But the Shire’s _tiny,_ ” he heard Nori say, and Dwalin’s look of glee was nearly enough to push Thorin over the edge.

“Oh, come off it,” Thorin heard, the words, surprisingly, not from him but from Bilbo. “Don't pretend you would have been any better off, if Gandalf hadn't been there to help you.”

Thorin glanced back and caught Bilbo’s gaze for a second—the barest, briefest second—but it was enough time for Bilbo to quirk an eyebrow at him without the others noticing, before Nori pulled him into a laughing embrace. Thorin felt his face heat up and he turned back to Dwalin quickly. “Balin?” he asked, blurted really, before Dwalin has a chance to say anything. “Where is he?”

“Speakin’ with the king. Said he was the one best qualified for it, and no one doubted him on that.”

Thorin felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth. “That sounds like him.”

Dwalin adopted a mischievous expression, and Thorin instantly knew what he would say. “And you know why Balin had to take care of things himself?” Dwalin said, not really expecting an answer, then raised an eyebrow at Thorin. “You get so lost you were turnin’ round in circles? I bet you were.”

Thorin groaned in reply. “What ever happened to respect?”

“I respect you,” Dwalin snorted, "I just don't let that get in the way o' things."

There came a strange scuffling sound from the center of the room, a brief gasp, and Bilbo calling suddenly, “Frodo? What are you...? Wait—”

Thorin turned, scoffing at Dwalin's flippant comment, to see who Bilbo was talking to, only to be met with a small hobbit with large blue eyes and a perplexed expression. “Um...” he murmured, staring down at the child. “Hello.”

The young hobbit looked him up and down, as if assessing him, before returning his stare. “Who’re you,” he asked plainly, tilting his head.

"Thorin Oakenshield," he replied, noticing, distantly, that the voices in the room had turned to whispers. He could easily hear Dwalin snickering behind him and his brother exclaimed something like _“smaller hobbit,”_ with a kind of disbelieving reverence, but he paid it no mind.

The child looked puzzled for a moment, fidgeting in place, before asking, “...why?” and scrunching his nose up.

Thorin opened and closed his mouth, trying to come up with an answer that might satisfy the hobbit. Why indeed, he thought amusedly. “I...” he began, but Bilbo interrupted, and he thanked Mahal for that; he had no idea what his reply might have been.

“I believe,” Bilbo said, head tilted much like the young hobbit’s, a strange expression on his face, “he means the, uh, ‘Oakenshield’ part.” Frodo looked back at him, nodding his head with a wide smile, before turning back to Thorin expectantly. “I must admit, I find myself rather curious as well. I wasn't aware dwarrows had last names,” Bilbo continued.

Thorin instinctively felt his jaw tighten, a useless reaction against the memories of Kazad-dûm, and he swallowed dryly. Almost unconsciously, he caught Bifur’s eyes from across the room, where the dwarf appeared to have been whittling something of wood. Thorin saw the movement of his hands stutter to a stop, the dwarf’s expression solemn, and Thorin felt the others in the room grow quiet, the silence swept in like a sudden draft. Bilbo was the only one who did not seem to notice the immediate shift in the air, his eyes locked on Thorin. "Who's that, then?" he heard Dori whisper to Ori to his left. "A brother?"

"Nephew," Ori answered, voice nearly inaudible. "Frodo Baggins."

With a pang, Thorin remembered when his own nephews had asked after his shield—when they were old enough to understand what exactly it was—and asked where it had come from, inquiring after the dozen marks marring its surface. They had asked not knowing the true devastation behind it—there was that unmistakable glint of childlike curiosity in their eyes—but Thorin could not deny them the truth. He had told them of the branch of oak which had saved his life so he might turn the tide of battle, leaving out the aspects of the day which appeared only in his nightmares. They had looked at the shield, looked at _him,_ with such wonder in their faces that he felt, in that moment, that he might actually be someone his nephews looked up to.

He had never considered that before.

Thorin saw the same incorrigible curiosity in Frodo Baggins, but he could see with the stretched silence, his lack of response, that the boy was growing anxious. He saw Bilbo’s now worried gaze, trained on Frodo, out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps young hobbits were not so different from dwarflings. Fíli and Kíli adored his stories; Bilbo’s nephew might as well. Thorin dropped to one knee, in order to be at eye level with the young hobbit, and asked softly, “have you ever climbed an Oak tree?”

Frodo’s eyes widened briefly before the boy looked down at the straps of his suspenders, fiddling with them. “Y-yes. With my friend, Sam.”

Thorin nodded seriously. “Then you know its strength. The wood is steadfast and strong.”

Frodo returned the nod, and Thorin looked up to glance at Bilbo for a moment, but only a moment, because he was unsure of what the hobbit’s expression meant. “You know, little one, it was a branch of an oak tree which saved my life in battle.”

“Really? You’ve been in battle?” the child asked incredulously. “I've never heard a tale from a real hero before!”

 _Hero,_ something at the back of his mind echoed mockingly. _Were you a_ hero _when you let your kin die?_

At that moment, Thorin could not quite help the way his mind went blank with a kind of numb panic. He was a fool to believe he might be able to discuss the battle, even as he distanced himself from it. It was difficult, when the battle of Azanulbizar was addressed, to simply _see_ the memories as opposed to reliving them as he sometimes did, but it had been a long time since he had had that problem when he was awake. Normally he was only affected in his dreams. He knew this affliction was a common thing for dwarrows who had seen battle, but he could not stop himself from considering it a vulnerability. A liability. A weakness.

Images of broken bodies flashed through his mind, bloody fields and tattered corpses, and he swallowed, a dry click ringing in his ears. He felt that familiar tightening of his throat creep up from the pit of his stomach, the quickening pace of his heartbeat, and not for the first time he cursed his traitorous body. Thorin’s mind recognized there was no reason for this—there was no danger here, only a small _boy,_ but logic was useless against primal instinct. He opened his mouth, knowing he would not be capable of a response, but there was a small part of him that still fought for a semblance of control.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Bilbo tutted, his hands suddenly on the boy’s shoulders, and Thorin belatedly wondered when Bilbo had moved, “there will be no stories of blood or mayhem before supper.”

Thorin used the distraction gratefully, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, forcibly inducing a tentative calm. After a few seconds—he could not devote any more time to the attempt without alerting those in the room to his condition—he opened his eyes, and stood up, sending a strained smile down at the young Baggins boy. None of the Company knew how badly off he could be sometimes, not even Balin or Dwalin. Only his siblings knew the extent of it, and he could practically feel Frerin’s sharp, assessing stare boring holes into his skin. Frodo frowned up at Bilbo, crossing his arms. “But I want to hear from Mister Thorin,” he pouted, and Bilbo raised an eyebrow in reply.

“Tell you what,” the hobbit prince said after a moment, “you can run into the dining hall and reserve a place for Prince Thorin next to you.” Frodo smiled immediately and Bilbo added, “if you behave yourself, then we can see about some stories. Alright?”

Frodo nodded, turned, and grabbed Thorin’s arm, shaking it once and saying, “I’ll get us the best seats! You’ll see! And then you can tell me about that place you came from. Air... Er...”

“Erebor,” Thorin mumbled, still feeling a tad lightheaded, but more aware of things.

“Right!” Frodo exclaimed happily, before darting off through a large door at the right of the room with a grin.

Thorin exhaled roughly, running a hand over his face as the boy ran out of sight. He moved to lean against the wall, managing something of a scoff when Dwalin clapped him on the back and muttered something that sounded like “hobbit version of Kíli.” The others were speaking amongst themselves again, a constant, buzzing drone that helped chase shadows from his mind. Far too soon, he felt a warm hand on his arm, and he opened his eyes irritably to find Bilbo’s face disconcertingly close to his own. “Are you alright?” Bilbo asked softly, tilting his head with a worried expression. “You’re really very pale,” he said, frowning, and to Thorin’s shock, he reached up and pressed his palm to Thorin’s forehead.

Thorin stiffened at the touch, staring at Bilbo with wide eyes. Bilbo’s gaze was trained on his hand, but after a moment he met Thorin’s eyes, brow furrowed, his own eyes alight with concern and Thorin didn't know what to _do,_ still caught in the fading dredges of panic. Bilbo opened his mouth to speak again, but suddenly Frerin was there pulling Bilbo’s attention away from him, and Thorin could breathe properly again. "Oh, don't worry yourself over him," Frerin said easily, carelessly winding his arm with Bilbo's. "He's just hungry is all. Now, you must tell me more of this wizard you've kept company with. I've always wanted to meet a wizard.”

“Oh! Um...” Bilbo began, being led away by Frerin reluctantly as his brother sent a discreet glance back at him.

 _“Okay?”_ Frerin mouthed, brows drawn together. Thorin nodded back tiredly. Bilbo cast one last questioning look towards him as well, as Frerin talked at him, and while Thorin appreciated his brother's efforts to give him space, he could not help the inexplicable pang he felt at the sight of Bilbo turning away from him.

He did not know how much time passed as he slowly returned to himself, felt his self-control come back to him. All he knew was that he was not approached by anyone else and he was thankful for it. He only thanked Mahal it had not been worse, that he had not lost himself in front of everyone and subjected himself to their judgement. The first time, Dís had found him, shaking and sobbing in the corner of his room, believing himself to be on the battlefield still. She had comforted him, patiently waiting it out with him, and he remembered thinking, afterward, what might have happened if it had not been Dís who’d heard him, but his father. Or perhaps, his grandfather. He would have called him coward, Thorin knew. Craven and useless. _The Durin line,_ he remembered Thror telling him one day, _has no room for weakness._

The distinct sound of a pair of heavy doors swinging open jolted him from thoughts that made him uneasy, and he looked over to see Balin, followed by a hobbit with brown hair and an unreadable expression. Instantly, Thorin knew this was the king, and it was not the plain gold circlet around his head which told him, but rather the way he carried himself. The hobbit stood tall, as if he was not a whole head shorter than Balin, and had sharp, intelligent eyes which took in everyone in the room in a moment, assessing each of them without pause, his face betraying nothing but a polite smile. “May I present his majesty, King Bungo,” Balin announced.

“Oh, please,” the king waved a hand. “There's no need for formalities.”

He glanced at each of them once more, his eyes pausing on his son longest, before moving on. Thorin looked over to Bilbo, unsure of what he initially expected to see, but he was confused when Bilbo looked almost ill, his face pale and his gaze downcast. “So,” King Bungo said, something inexplicably hard in his tone masked by a thin veneer of impassivity. “These are our dwarven guests.”


	7. Out of the Woodwork

His father had apparently planned this supper for their personal dining hall, smaller and less daunting. There was no surplus of space—the table fit their number and their number only. The others were shown to their seats, but Bilbo only listened with half an ear. He felt rather sick to his stomach as he shakily sat down in one of the chairs and thought, distractedly, that this might be what one felt when being led to the gallows. Bilbo hadn't been in a room with his father since their... What would you even call that? He could not meet his father's eyes, not when he heard his words from a few nights ago ringing in his ears as if they were floating in the room, swirling around his head. How could he even begin to apologize for what he'd said, what... what he'd—

With that memory fresh in his mind, Bilbo blanched and hid his shaking hands beneath the table. He cast his attention elsewhere, desperately searching for a distraction, and his eyes were drawn to Prince Thorin for a moment. Frodo had latched onto the dwarf almost immediately, already regaling him with a retelling of one of his exploits with Sam. There was something Bilbo didn't quite understand. Frodo normally was shy around new faces, but he had taken to Thorin the moment he saw him. Perhaps it was something about the prince's appearance. He was every bit the heroic looking figure from the stories Bilbo often read him, handsome, strong and tall, piercing blue eyes...

Those eyes suddenly flicked to him, and he looked away hastily. He was also, Bilbo sternly reminded himself, a clothead. An arrogant clothead, at that. The elder's brother, Frerin, he considered, looking over to him on Thorin's other side, was much more amiable. He always wore a smile, and Bilbo appreciated the great effort he made to get along with those he met. Bilbo also noticed, however, that his smiles often seemed too wide, too forced, and when the young prince thought no one was watching he looked lost and very, very young indeed. Bilbo could, in many ways, relate and sympathize.

Dwalin and Balin seemed nice enough, but also politely distant. Even now, Balin spoke to his father with a pleasant smile, and Bilbo knew this dwarf was well-versed in politics and negotiations. Bilbo could tell his father had been on edge over this meeting, even while he avoided any direct confrontation, but he conversed easily with the old dwarf, and for that Bilbo was silently thankful. "Bilbo," Bofur asked quietly from his place next to him, at Bilbo's insistence, "you alright? You've not said anything since we came in."

Shaking himself from his uneasy stupor, he managed a small, but hopefully convincing smile. "Yes. Just in a bit of disbelief, I suppose. I'm just... I'm glad you're all back."

Bofur's good natured grin in return was nearly blinding. "I almost can't believe it myself! Never thought I'd be eating at the same table as a king, I'll tell ya that. Not quite dressed for it, am I?" he asked, tugging one of the flaps of his hat with a wink.

"Please, we have no dress code here. No concrete one, at least. But that hat's still as ragged as ever, I see," Bilbo chuckled, I surely grateful that the company of his friend could still make him feel better on a dime. "Have you even washed it since I've seen you last?"

"That would mean I'd have to take it off," Bofur joked, (or so Bilbo hoped).

Scrunching up his nose, Bilbo made a show of scooting his chair farther from him. Bofur laughed and clapped Bilbo on the shoulder. "Still more hobbit than dwarf!"

"Obviously," Bilbo replied, raising his eyebrows.  

Bofur chuckled and shook his head fondly. Bilbo could feel two pairs of eyes studying him, at least for the moment, but he tried to ignore them. The blue pair he minded slightly less than his father's, though he would never say so out loud. Very soon, the doors leading to the kitchen were opened, and servers brought platters piled high with food. The dwarrows looked almost disbelieving at the amount placed on the table, but followed the king's example after he said to the group, "please, take your pick and eat as much as you like," and began to fill his own plate.  

Bilbo chose to take only a roll of bread and a bowl of soup. He wasn't very hungry—the nerves he felt twisting around in his stomach made it impossible to be so. Still he nibbled at the roll, trying to maintain appearances. No doubt Bofur would comment on his hobbitness again, he thought wryly, if he chose not to eat at all. "Master Baggins," Balin spoke up from the opposite side of the table, "I hear from my brother that you and the princes have already been introduced?"

The table grew quiet once more and Bilbo looked up hesitantly to find Bungo's questioning gaze on him. He was silent for a beat too long—he saw the others turn to look at him with mild confusion written on their faces. Bilbo blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. "Yes, we—we happened to run into each other."

Bilbo saw Frerin's eyes widen and thought, _oh_ . _Right, that's... Yes._ The young dwarf seemed to have inhaled a piece of food and he began to cough violently into his soup. It was believable, granted, but Bilbo was almost positive Frerin was more _cackling_ than coughing. Bilbo observed Thorin's momentarily slack jawed expression and wondered if he should feel amused or mortified at his choice of words—closer to the truth than his father or anyone else truly knew. "Oh... really?" Bungo asked, eyeing Frerin confusedly, who was now making strange snuffling noises into the back of his hand.

"Yes," Thorin blurted, sending a brief, incredulous glare at Bilbo which, frankly, was uncalled for. It's not as if Bilbo brought the incident up on purpose. "Your son was kind enough to escort us to Bag End himself."

"Well," Bungo said after a moment, still peering at all three of them with a raised eyebrow, "it's good that you have gotten to know each other already, however briefly."

"Oh yes absolutely," Frerin spoke up, face a bit red but otherwise looking cheerful and unruffled. "You could call it something of a surprise smash."

To Frerin's credit he spoke with a completely straight face, but Bilbo couldn't help a surprised, amused snort, and he quickly clapped a hand his mouth when bemused gazes turned his way. "Sorry," he said, voice strangled with restrained laughter and he couldn't, oh gods Thorin's _face,_ "just something—something stuck—" He cleared his throat, perhaps a tad much, but he was trying to sell this, and Frerin's absolutely delighted expression wasn't helping things. "—in my throat."

Everyone was quiet, glancing around in puzzlement. It was the unsure air of a silent joke, one that, Bilbo thought, was so completely and utterly ridiculous that it had miraculously lifted his mood. Frerin winked at him, and Bilbo, all of a sudden very grateful, smiled back. Frodo, bless his heart, actually seemed concerned at the goings-on between them. "Are you and Mister Frerin alright, Uncle?" he asked, looking between them. "Is there something wrong with your food?"

"Oh, no," Frerin was quick to assure, shooting a smile at the king. "Everything's delicious. I'm very impressed."

Bungo remained silent, glancing between them. "Right," he said slowly, drawing out the word. "I'll pass on the word to the cooks, I suppose."

Bilbo took this as his cue to return his attention to the food. He heard the clatter of silverware and assumed others were following his example. His appetite had emerged and he suddenly felt ravenous. Here, at this table, with these dwarrows he could pretend. He could forget and, really, it wasn't all that difficult. They didn't know what he'd done, the mistakes he'd made, and it was so much better than seeing pity or blame written across every face he happened to stumble upon. Bilbo could pretend, could lie to himself for a respite, because that was easier than facing it—the _courage of hobbits,_ Gandalf had said to him once, but he'd never been brave, not really.

Not when it counted.

Swallowing, he forcefully turned his mind away and focused on the multitude of conversations drifting around the table. He managed to catch the end of one of Frodo's stories, and smiled to himself. "—and that's how Merry and I accidentally broke Aldagram Took's 300 year old vase," Frodo finished, with a satisfied nod.

"Well," he heard Thorin say after a moment, "that's quite an accident."

At this, Frodo shrugged, and Bilbo planned to ask Frodo to tell him this particular story some day, because Frodo had a way of acting modest when he was, in reality, extremely proud of himself for something or other. "It was Merry's fault really, that it fell," he told Thorin seriously. He then furrowed his brow and said, worriedly, "but don't tell him I said so."

Bilbo bit his cheek to keep from smiling at Thorin's briefly bewildered expression, but felt something warm uncurling in his chest when Thorin's face softened and he nodded seriously at Frodo, saying, "of course not. This is between you and me, after all."

He felt like he was seeing a different side of Thorin with Frodo and didn't quite know how to sort it out in his mind. Bilbo knew, of course, that first impressions were almost always wrong, and thought, it was possible that theirs had been a particularly powerful example of that. Or he really was an arrogant sod. For some reason, Bilbo was absurdly pleased that he had quite a lot of time to figure it out. "Wait..." Thorin said, drawing his attention back to the two of them. "What happened after? Does this Took fellow know it was you?"

Frodo looked sheepish for a moment, leaning in close and whispering something Bilbo couldn't hear. From Thorin's face he couldn't guess what it was, because the dwarf merely blinked at Frodo blankly. Bilbo quirked an eyebrow and turned back to Bofur, who was arguing with Dori about something, (the quality of the tea?) when he heard a sound that completely and utterly brought his attention back to the dwarf prince. The dwarf had _laughed._ Honest to gods, Thorin Oakenshield, previously Thorin the Presumptuous Hardass (he was proud of that nickname actually—he thought it had a nice ring to it, and it had been particularly pleasing to address the ponce like that in his head), had _laughed_ and Bilbo had _missed it._

Bilbo realized he was staring—gaping, more like—when the dwarf's blue eyes met his and he looked away hastily, cheeks burning. When Bilbo gathered the willpower to look back, Thorin had already turned back to Frodo. Well, that was... well.

Bloody hell.

"Uncle Bilbo," Frodo called out, and Bilbo snapped his head up in an attempt to somehow knock some sense into himself.

"Yes, Frodo?"

"You're better at stories than me, so you should tell Thorin about the trolls! That one's my favorite," Frodo said, drawing out the last word with pleading eyes.

Bilbo was about to reply, a yes, of course, because this was Frodo and when had Bilbo ever been able to deny him anything—

But he remembered where he was and who he was with and why, exactly, it was that he was so desperately searching for distraction, and the words shriveled and died in his throat. "I..." he said, and he felt the blood drain from his face because he knew his father must have heard Frodo's request and he couldn't, he couldn't look and see disappointment, or even worse that look in his eyes that was too close to disdain—

"I don't believe I've heard this story," his father said, something gentle in his tone, and incredulous, Bilbo glanced at him.

His father wore a tentative smile and his eyes looked a bit wet, and Bilbo could do nothing but stare at him. "I'd be glad to hear it," Bungo continued, his expression earnest and Bilbo had no clue what to do.

"Um..." Bilbo mumbled, and his hands were shaking again so he kept them in his lap, furtively twisting together.

"This wouldn't happen to be the story with us in it, is it?" Bofur asked with interest, a glimmer in his eye, and Bilbo swallowed hard when the other dwarrows looked intrigued as well.

"A story?" Frerin asked, an inviting smile on his face. "Are you an avid storyteller, Prince Bilbo?"

"Well, I..."

"Oh, Uncle's the _best_ with stories; you _must_ show them, Uncle Bilbo—"

"I—"

“Are you a storyteller by trade, Prince Bilbo?” Dori asked from across the table.

“Well—”

“He’s not anything _by trade_ ,” Nori turned to Dori, scoffing. “He’s a _prince._ It's not like he’s going ‘round exchanging stories for silver pieces—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Dori replied indignantly, glaring back as Ori beside him sighed audibly. Bifur made some quick, clever sign with his hands to Bofur accompanied by a roll of his eyes that had the hatted dwarf choking on his drink, as much as Bilbo loved dwarrows and their energy, he couldn’t help but find it all horribly overwhelming in that moment. There were so many overlapping voices at that point that he could barely hear himself think, and he was all too aware that his father’s eyes had not left him, and he felt some of that earlier dread trickle into his stomach and flood his veins.

" _Perhaps_ ," Thorin's voice suddenly cut through the others', "if you all gave Master Baggins some time to catch his breath, he might actually be able to tell his tale."

Immediately, the chattering ceased. Bilbo glanced at him in surprise, that sudden anxiety already fading, to find the dwarf already looking at him, his expression even. Wordlessly, Thorin gave him a little nod, and leaned back in his chair. Bilbo stared at him, confusedly assessing the dwarf's calm expression. Thorin had cut in the moment before Bilbo had lost his nerve, and that was _great,_ he truly appreciated it, but he couldn't help but wonder if it was just coincidence or if Thorin had _known._ Bilbo's mind frantically sought a definition or explanation for the dwarf that was Thorin Oakenshield, only to come up short. He drew his eyes away, (noting, with a strange fascination, the way Thorin did _not_ ) when Frodo’s remorseful voice piped up. "Sorry, Uncle Bilbo.”

"It's alright," Bilbo managed with a brief quirk of his lips. With a feeling of tightness in his chest, Bilbo met his Bungo’s eyes, and his father nodded at him with a small smile. A thought came to his mind, one that made him feel steadier, more sure of himself. Perhaps, he thought, there were different kinds of courage.

Bilbo took a deep breath and clapped his hands together. "Right," he said, taking on what Frodo had deemed his 'storytelling voice,' "our story begins with Bofur here," he gestured to the dwarf beside him who was grinning madly, "neglecting—"

"Oi!"

" _—neglecting_ his watch..."

And so he told it, and everyone at the table, even his father, listened. He used different voices to please Frodo and gave all the dwarrows who were present at the time a specific role in the story, and while he exaggerated some of the less interesting bits, he mainly stuck to the truth. When he came to the part when they were all stuffed into sacks, to his pleasant surprise, Thorin actually burst into laughter, head thrown back and shoulders shaking, and Bilbo stopped for a moment because when Thorin laughed he laughed with his entire body, eyes bright and crinkled at the corners—

Thorin met his gaze and his smile slowly disappeared, but his eyes were still shining with amusement. Bilbo grinned so wide his cheeks hurt, because _he_ had prompted Thorin Oakenshield to _laugh_ , and he'd be damned if that didn't feel like victory.

The time passed quickly, Bilbo completely invested his retelling, and soon the table was cleared of their dishes. “I've heard trolls are better cooks than men at least,” Frerin grinned after Bilbo had finished.

“For some, that might be true,” Bilbo replied, laughing. “They did try to season the broth, I'll give them credit for that.”

“The broth they tried to stick our heads into!” Bofur exclaimed, jokingly indignant.

“You lot are just lucky they didn't decide to eat you raw,” Dwalin spoke up, raising an eyebrow. “Knew a dwarf once, _swallowed whole_.”

“Oh, did you see this happen?” Ori asked him, voice somewhat dubious.

“Well, no,” Dwalin admitted reluctantly, but he leaned over the table pointing at Ori, saying, “but I know it's true.”

“Please,” Nori snorted. “Troll’d at least need to take two bites.”

Bilbo laughed along with the others, but cut off when he noticed his father looked slightly green. Probably all the talk of dismemberment, he thought. He remembered when such things had made him just as uneasy, but that was before he was almost eaten by trolls and chased by rogue Orc packs and almost eaten _again_ (he did have rather foul luck in that area) by that strange creature in the Misty Mountains. Still, he could see his father was making an enormous effort. Bungo had taken the less than stellar table manners and constant clamor in stride. He had not even shied away from the reminder of Bilbo’s journey—he had always steadfastly ignored the topic in the past. Bilbo had come back with so many _stories,_ they practically writhed inside him and pressed at his edges, and for the longest time he wasn't able to tell anyone. His father had wanted to hear nothing of it, and his mother—oh, he was sure his mother would have _loved_ his tales, but every visit to her rooms still filled him with that guilt that ate at his insides and he couldn't bring himself to say anything. Frodo, he eventually told, but that was largely because he ran out of any other material. Thankfully, the boy had loved them as well as the rest.

But still, his father was trying and _accepting,_ and Bilbo would try to repay the favor. “Alright, alright!” he shouted, trying to be heard above the din. Their voices died down after a few moments (there was some grumbling from Dwalin, but Bilbo caught a flash of movement and the dwarf’s voice cut off with a huff. Balin, suspiciously, was ignoring his brother’s glare). “That's enough talk of that for some of us,” he said, looking pointedly at Frodo, who blinked back innocently. “I think it's time we got you all settled in your rooms,” Bilbo continued. “You’ve come rather a long way, after all.”

“Rooms?” Bofur repeated.

“Well, yes. You didn't think you'd be sleeping on the floor, did you?”

“Had enough of that the past few days,” Nori groaned.

“Well, then,” Bungo said, standing up and gesturing to one of the servers at the door, “we’ll have someone escort you.”

As the dwarrows began to filter out of the room, led to their quarters with varying degrees of enthusiasm and brief goodbyes, Bilbo raised an eyebrow at Frodo, who pouted at him. Sighing, Frodo stood up as well, and turned to Thorin. “Goodnight, Mister Thorin,” he said, smiling up at him, and Bilbo thought, again, it was truly remarkable that he had warmed up to the dwarf so fast.

“Goodnight, Frodo,” Thorin replied, with a quick twitch of his lips.

Frodo turned to Frerin and bid him goodnight, as well, and shot a “sleep well, Uncle Bilbo,” to him on his way out the door.

“Oi! That's all I get?” Bilbo called after him, chuckling.

“He’s very spirited,” a voice sounded from behind him, and it was _Thorin,_ he knew, but he still jumped almost a foot in the air, because Thorin had been _over there_.

“ _Bloody Eru_ ,” he blurted, whirling around. “You...” he began, before processing what Thorin had said, “oh, yes, he’s—well, yes—”

“I had not realized you had any siblings,” Thorin interrupted, expression suddenly stormy, and _what,_ where had that come from?

“What?” Bilbo asked, uncomprehendingly.

Thorin’s frown grew deeper and he began to repeat, “I said I had not—”

“I don't.”

“You don't?” Thorin looked confused. “Then, why—”

“Your nephew is really very sweet, Master Baggins,” Frerin said, making his way around the table to them.

Oh. _Oh._ “He’s not really my nephew,” Bilbo blurted. At Thorin’s unchanging expression and Frerin’s completely bewildered one, he added, “his parents died when he was very young, and we took him in. He’s always insisted on calling me ‘Uncle’ and I've had no problem with it.”

“I see,” Thorin said after a moment, staring at him and Bilbo wished he could know what was going on in that head of his, because his face revealed nothing.

“Right, well, I can show you to your rooms if you like? They're relatively close to mine, so it's no problem.”

They both nodded, and Bilbo led them out. He wasn't sure if it was just him, but the silence somehow seemed stifling because, with the three of them alone again, he recalled exactly why they were here in the first place. “You were very—” he began in an attempt to fill the awkward air, just as Thorin said, “did you really—”

Thorin furrowed his brow and gestured for Bilbo to speak. “I... I was just going to say... Thank you, for spending time with Frodo. It's not quite like him to be so open to new people.” Immediately after Bilbo said it, he worried Thorin might take it as a slight somehow, because Yavanna knows they were both good at that, but the dwarf merely nodded.

“Our nephews are quite the same,” Thorin said, shrugging his shoulders. “Frodo is much like my sister’s son, Kíli, in many respects.”

“Oh, you have a sister?” Bilbo asked, smiling at the thought. “What's her name? What's she like?”

Thorin quirked an eyebrow at Bilbo's flurry of questions, to which Bilbo shrugged and mimicked, _"I had not realized you had any more siblings."_

Frerin snorted at Bilbo's impersonation, and Thorin sent Bilbo an affronted look. "I do not sound like that," he protested.

"Meh," Frerin said, tilting his head. "It's not bad actually," he told Bilbo. "But it's hard to get the underlying gravelly essence to it," Frerin continued, gesturing to his throat.

" _Essence?"_ Thorin mumbled under his breath, but Bilbo heard and huffed a laugh.

"So, Dís?" Bilbo interjected, because Frerin sounded like he was just warming up, and Thorin looked like he was seriously considering strangling him.

"Right, Dís," Thorin said, jumping onto the topic gratefully. "She..." he stopped, opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking. “Dís is...”

“Terrifying,” Frerin said plainly. “But also level-headed, intelligent, kind.” He stopped, looked at Thorin, then back at Bilbo. “Basically a better version of both of us really.”

Thorin rolled his eyes at his brother’s response. Bilbo smiled, both at Frerin's answer and Thorin's reaction, and said, “she sounds lovely.”

“Oh, she is. If she likes you,” Frerin said. “If she doesn't, well, let's just say she's skilled with an axe and can—”

“Ignore,” Thorin interrupted, rubbing at his temple, “my brother, he excels in exaggeration.”

Bilbo, laughing, said, “speaking of your brother,” and stopped by the door to Frerin’s room, “this is your stop.” He opened the door and Frerin’s eyes widened for a moment.

“This is a guest room?” Frerin asked disbelievingly.

“Do you not like it?” Bilbo asked worriedly. “All your things have been placed inside, but we can have another room set up—”

“It's _great_ ,” Frerin exclaimed, and without a word of warning he flew into the room. “Goodnight!” he shouted from inside, and then silence.

“Well,” Bilbo began amusedly, biting his lip at Thorin’s drawn expression, “I suppose he’ll be fine, then.” He closed the door gingerly, not wanting Frerin to suddenly open it and smack him in the face.

“I think he had too much ale,” Thorin said, by way of explanation, and Bilbo chuckled.

“Oh, he's nothing compared to Nori when he’s drunk,” Bilbo grinned, as they walked further down the hall. At Thorin’s raised eyebrow, he leaned closer and said, “he gets very amorous.”

Bilbo laughed at Thorin’s expression. “Oh,” he realized after a moment, “what were you about to say before?”

To his shock, Thorin's face seemed to flush—he’d seen the dwarf look like a lot of things, but never like that. “Just... That story you told, did you—did you really face three trolls? Yourself?”

“Well, I wasn't by _myself,_ ” Bilbo was quick to correct, “but yes, essentially, I suppose. If you want to get all technical and unnecessary about it because, I mean, it's not like I strolled up to them because I wanted to and decided to strike up a conversation...” He trailed off when he noticed Thorin was staring at him, a peculiar expression on his face. “What?”

Thorin blinked, looked away, and huffed something that was almost a laugh, but Bilbo supposed he had fulfilled his ‘Rare Expressions of Positive Emotions’ quota for the day. “Are all hobbits like you,” Thorin asked, “or is it just you?”

And Bilbo knew, _knew_ , he didn't mean it as an insult because there was something like wonder in his voice, but the words still stung all the same. “No,” he said, almost succeeding in hiding the bitterness in his voice and he was so glad that his and Thorin’s rooms were almost upon them; he suddenly wanted to hide away because, “no, they are not like me.”

Bilbo saw Thorin frown from the corner of his eye, and the dwarf began, somewhat stiltedly, “I did not mean—” and gods, Bilbo had to stop him because of all the things Thorin felt necessitated an apology he chose the one thing that was entirely not his fault. It wasn't Thorin's fault that he was _different,_ and it wasn't his fault that Bilbo couldn't help but consider that a flaw.

“It's fine,” he said, his voice clipped, and he mentally kicked himself for it because Thorin’s open expression retreated under that damned emotionless mask again. Sighing, Bilbo gestured to the door to his room. “I'm in here, and yours is right across the way over there,” he said, pointing.

“Of course,” Thorin said, voice even, and Bilbo hated it. “I'll take my leave of you, then.”

“Okay,” he said, and to his extreme embarrassment the word wobbled a bit. He saw Thorin falter for a moment, and Bilbo fought to breathe evenly because he wasn't actually sure what he wanted anymore, but Thorin turned with a brief nod and a curt, “goodnight,” and the moment was gone. Swallowing, Bilbo reached for his door, but the instant he touched the wood, a flash of fire, of an _eye,_ flickered in his mind and it only lasted a second, but it _hurt._ He clutched at his head, eyes wide, and his hands shook, and his mind screamed, _mine, mine, mine_ , like a demented echo and he didn't know why.

“Bilbo? Are you alright?” Thorin said, something strange in the tone of his voice, and Bilbo looked down the hall to see Thorin moving away from his own door towards him, and something, something in his head hissed, _no, no he’ll take it—_

“Fine!” he blurted, and it couldn't have been convincing at all, but Thorin stopped and so did the inexplicable rush of panic in Bilbo’s blood. “I'm fine I just,” he rambled, stepping backward to his door, “just tired, I'm fine,” and he entered and closed the door on Thorin’s cloudy expression.

He was relieved to find that the room was utterly silent, other than the beating of his heart. Almost immediately, he felt weighed down with fatigue and the stress of the day. Clenching his fists, he skirted the edges of the room making his way to his bed, keeping away from the corner to the right of the wall and refusing to look at it. Briefly, he considered, in a moment of rationality, how ridiculous he was being, but the echo of that voice in his head, the one that was not quite _his,_ justified his paranoia. Perhaps he was just going mad, he thought, as he slipped into bed. Mad Prince Baggins.

The last thing he thought, before exhaustion pulled him under, was that it was horribly fitting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, first update of 2016!  
> Happy New Year everyone :)


	8. Late Night Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My God, how did this chapter turn into so much fluff? Damn. Well, it's about time anyway. You guys deserve some fluff.

The dream was not the same.

Thorin had entered his borrowed room with his mind whirling, an afterimage of Bilbo’s expression burned against the backs of his eyelids every time they had slipped shut. He _knew_ that expression, knew it from the battlefield, had seen it flash across dwarrow’s faces and had seen it stick, spread, like an illness. It was _fear_ , and he knew it well enough to recognize it on anyone’s face. Thorin wondered idly what, in an empty hallway, could have brought it about. Bilbo had been acting strangely most of the evening, and Thorin didn't know why he wanted to know the reason.

He admittedly could accept the fact that his disposition towards Bilbo was more positive than it had been... Had it really been just a few hours?

Shaking his head, Thorin laid back in his bed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He was not awake enough to think on the strange turn the day had taken, and yet he was wary of rest. There was a familiar anxiousness he had when he faced the prospect of sleep—he was always unsure whether his dreams would be tormented or, at best, nonexistent. Part of him fought his exhaustion, but his thoughts were spinning with the events of the day and he just wanted that to stop. As he stared at the wooden grooves of the ceiling, it became harder and harder to keep his eyes open. Eventually, he slipped into sleep, worries brewing like a storm over his head.

 

* * *

 

 _The darkness was unnatural. It did not shy away from light—it_ consumed _it. It enveloped nearly everything, and there was that fear, the fear that he also would be overtaken eventually. Inevitably. He knew this place, knew these moments and movements like the back of his hand, and he'd be damned if he was ever able to forget. He acted as he knew how, steel of his sword singing his his hand, and he was_ unstoppable, _every strike bringing death. Deathless. He was deathless, where so many others had fallen he had survived and there were those voices, the ones that had told him he should be thankful and that he had been strong and brave, but he could not think of it as anything but a curse._

 _He fought. He fought, and he couldn't really_ see _his enemies because the darkness had a way of funneling itself into his eyes and his nose and his mouth, but he had long since learned that breathing came easier when he didn't struggle. He moved back, avoiding a faceless Orc that still somehow grinned at him, and, tripping, he faltered for the briefest second, his swing just a portion of a second too late—there was a brief moment where he was_ afraid, _truly afraid—and then icy pain lanced up his back and spread through his bones and he couldn't scream, he couldn't breathe, and he wasn't allowed to die. He couldn't last, couldn't withstand it because he was_ weak, _and he would give anything to escape and to_ forget _and he prayed, he prayed to whatever deity might listen, please, please, please_ — _silence. There was suddenly nothing but silence, and he was alone._

_This had never happened before._

_He did not remember drawing his weapon, and yet it was slotted in his palm, and he thought, all the better, because he wasn't accustomed to respite or idleness in this place. This place was violence and pain. And death. But not for him. He was not allowed that luxury. He glanced around—still that swirling, ominous darkness that bit at his skin like a frigid wind—with wary eyes, analyzing any unnatural movement in the fog. There was something, something coming toward him but it was unlike anything he had seen before, bright white and moving at a blinding speed. Eyes wide, he shifted into a balanced stance, ready to strike, when a voice spoke, booming from every direction._ “Remember.”

 _The white light came into view and, shielding his eyes, he slowly, cautiously lowered his weapon. This, this thing was different. He felt, somehow, that this was not a threat._ “Remember,” _the thing seemed to say again, glowing brighter as the word echoed around him._

_“Remember what?” he asked instinctively, and he tightened his grip on his sword, glancing around wildly, before realizing that the sound had come from him. He had forgotten he even had a voice, in this place._

_The light rushed forward, stopping an inch from his face. He stared into it, squinting, and thought that he could see the faint outline of a woman’s face, for the briefest moment, and then it was gone and blinding again._ “Remember,” _it said again, an ominous finality making the disembodied words heavy, ringing in the air,_ “death comes in threes.”

 _“Thorin?” he heard a voice sound behind him, and his mind went blank with panic and he forgot the strange light, because that voice was just like the light—it was goodness and honesty and kindness, and he_ was not supposed to be here.

_Thorin whirled around, meeting Bilbo’s wide, frightened eyes. “Tho—” Bilbo choked out reaching for him, but then the darkness converged like hungry wolves ripping at his skin and tearing his hair, and with it came the sting of steel and the cries of thousands of bloodthirsty Orcs, and Thorin only saw a flash of Bilbo’s eyes, terror-filled, before he disappeared._

_And_ Bilbo, _getting to Bilbo, was the only thing that mattered, and he snarled and bit at the smoldering claws pinning him down and plunging cold steel into his gut. With a yell, he ripped through their somehow formless fingers and he ran, and he was almost there, almost where he had seen Bilbo disappear, when a mace swung through the air, out of the darkness, and knocked him off his feet. He pushed off the ground immediately, ignoring the searing ache in his lungs, but a vice-like grip wrapped itself around his throat and held him down. The Defiler snarled down at him, and he could_ see _the bits of flesh stuck in his teeth and could smell the blood on his breath, but he bared his own teeth in reply, uncaring of his own fate because—Bilbo, he needed to get to Bilbo. He struggled violently, clawing at any inch of skin he could reach, and The Pale Orc tilted his head, eyes boring into his, and began to laugh. The sound ignited a fury that he couldn't hope to control—his skin prickled and he saw_ red. _The Defiler, grinning, stood up, releasing him, but he still could not_ move _, some unnatural_ thing _crushing him with its weight, and he shouted any and all obscenities he knew at the Orc, not even having the satisfaction of hearing his own voice. The Defiler paid no attention, turning his head slowly to the right. Thorin followed his gaze, and immediately, he stilled._

 _Bilbo was held between two Orcs, head bowed downward, and Thorin could see him clearly, shaking and pale. Azog moved towards him, towards_ Bilbo, _and he panicked, trying to direct the Orc’s attention back to him. Azog ignored him, reaching out a hand and grabbing Bilbo by the hair, yanking his head back and exposing his working throat. "No," Thorin growled, the word practically ripped from the panic in his gut, "Azog—"_

_The Defiler pulled Bilbo's head back farther, drawing a whimper, and Thorin's voice died. He saw Azog lift his other hand—claw, jagged steel—and it had nearly touched the hollow of Bilbo's throat when he managed, "take me.” Azog grew still, and Thorin swallowed, looked at Bilbo, and then said again, stronger, “take me instead.”_

_Azog finally turned to look at him, colorless eyes opening slightly wider, and to Thorin's relief his hand fell from Bilbo's hair. Thorin didn't return his stare, because he needed to make sure Bilbo was unharmed, because that was_ important _, more important, more important than anything. Bilbo breathed in gulps of air, chest heaving, wincing when he tilted his head. Otherwise, Azog had not touched him, and Thorin thanked Mahal. Bilbo met Thorin's eyes and there was trust written in his own, still wide but focused and intelligent like Thorin knew them to be, and a thought sprang to Thorin's mind, one that seemed so simple and obvious, but held so much weight. He wanted to see those eyes for the rest of his life. It was such an overwhelming thought that he didn't entirely know what it meant—he only knew that it was true. "Thorin," Bilbo said, expression pleading, and Thorin needed to get him out, needed to get them both out, but Azog’s grin returned to his face at Bilbo’s voice, wider and more manic, and Thorin felt an icy dread settle in his stomach._

_Azog turned back to Bilbo and wrapped a hand around his neck, squeezing, ignoring the way he struggled. “No, no, no, no,” Thorin begged, thrashing against the unseen force pinning him to the ground._

_The Defiler was not moved by any of Thorin’s pleas. In one swift, brutal movement, he thrust the mass of twisted, sharpened steel attached to his arm through Bilbo’s stomach, twisting it viciously, before ripping it out. Bilbo’s face went white, blood spraying from his mouth as he coughed, once, and then the brightness of his eyes, still locked on Thorin, became dim and dull._

_And Thorin screamed._

 

* * *

 

Thorin did not wake up screaming, but it was a close thing. He had long since trained himself in censoring his... episodes, but tonight had been a sheer test of will. He sat upright, panting, eyes darting around the darkness of the room. He suddenly craved light, needed to see something different from the black of his room and the backs of his eyelids. The sheets had wrapped themselves around his legs and were cold, drenched with sweat. He rubbed the sides of his pounding head, willing away thoughts of blood and dead eyes. The details of the dream, thank Mahal, were already turning to a dull fog at the corners of his mind. He only remembered Bilbo...

He suddenly felt sick.

 _Guilt,_ he thought. There was that guilt again, but he didn't understand—it had been different. His present combining with his past to create something infinitely worse than either, but he didn't  _understand,_ why Bilbo, why not Frerin, or Balin, someone who was actually there or someone he  _failed,_ like all the dwarrows who died while he—

No. He couldn't stay there, couldn't remain while the memory was still pressing against the edges, taunting him. Part of him insisted that there was something, something about that dream had been important. _Important. More important._ Swallowing hard, he screwed his eyes shut, but the images came to mind anyway—Bilbo struggling and frightened and then far, far too _still,_  and that wasn't right because Bilbo always had energy and was always _moving—_  

Yes. Yes, that was it. He needed to move, to escape the confines of his four walls.

 _Remember,_ he thought he heard, a distant echo, but he shook his head violently, forcibly pushing the sound away. Making up his mind, Thorin got to his feet and rummaged for a tunic in his pack at the foot of his bed. Blindly yanking it on, he opened his door and was relieved to find the hallway lit, however dimly, with flickering lanterns. He would see the parts of Bag End he had not already experienced. And why not? He would not be kept prisoner by a room. 

With only a glance at the door across the hall—he would _not_ allow himself to think of Bilbo—he headed further down, the opposite direction they had come from dinner. He wandered aimlessly, absently noting that he would certainly not be able to find his way back himself, but he didn't think it mattered. He didn't intend to sleep again. Not until he had to.

 

* * *

 

 

He avoided most doors he saw, as he didn't wish to accidentally barge in on someone's personal chambers. Eventually, Thorin found himself facing a large set of double doors opened to reveal a large library. He considered it the most interesting thing he had come across, and, shrugging, he made his way inside. The size of the place, Thorin thought again as he took in the sheer amount that the library held, was truly staggering. The room was lit in a low light, the source seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was silent, calm and abandoned in the late hour.

Tracing a finger over the spines of book as he passed, he noted that most were either in Common or Sindarin. He glared at the books written in the latter, and spared a brief moment to wonder, grouchily, why there were none in Khuzdul, but then realized how implausible that would be. Not many, other than dwarrows, were privy to the language.

He was so absorbed in the titles, taken in by the deceptive calm, that he did not see the hobbit headed towards him, carrying a precarious pile of books, until it was too late. Thorin jolted back in surprise as the person ran into him, flinching as a book flew up, twinging his nose. He might've kept his balance, if it wasn't for the hand that wound itself into his tunic, dragging him down. Thorin braced himself at the last second with his hands, narrowly avoiding crushing the person below him. He blanched when he recognized the other's features, and wondered if perhaps he was cursed.

"I feel as though we've been here before," Bilbo commented nonchalantly. Then, "Ugh, I think I sprained something."

Immediately, Thorin straightened, face burning, and wordlessly reached a hand out to help Bilbo up. Bilbo gave him a strange look, but accepted his help. As soon as Bilbo was on his feet again—wavering slightly, but still on his feet—Thorin stooped down to pick up the books that had fallen. "I apologize," he mumbled, "I did not see you."

Thorin wondered what Bilbo was doing up so late (or so early—he didn't actually know what time it was) but Bilbo might ask the same, and that was the last topic he wanted to broach. He moved to give the books to Bilbo, but noticed Bilbo was staring at him like he'd grown a second head. "Are you okay?" Bilbo asked worriedly.

Thorin swallowed hard, that same worried expression painted on Bilbo's face flashing through his mind, but under very different circumstances. Thorin, avoiding Bilbo's gaze, raised the books in his hands and Bilbo, finally noticing them, blinked and took them. "Fine," Thorin managed, feeling as if the words were stuck in his throat. "I apologize again for barging in on you. Goodnight."

He turned around, and had taken barely a step before Bilbo called out, "wait! Thorin, just—bloody—"

Thorin kept walking, intent on the door, but Bilbo matched his stride, coming up beside him. "You don't have to go you know," Bilbo said, trying to meet Thorin's eyes. "It's fairly large room, so believe it or not we can share the space."

Thorin didn't answer, didn't look, because if he looked he might see it again and he couldn't—

"Hey," Bilbo said, placing a hand on his arm, and for some reason, that action stopped Thorin cold. Bilbo came around in front of him, tilting his head. Thorin braced himself for questions, for explanations, and he hated, _hated_ the fact that if Bilbo asked he would likely answer anything without a second thought, because he felt _guilty,_ and that didn't even make any sense. Bilbo stared at him, eyes narrowed slightly. Thorin's jaw tightened, but he couldn't see a way out of the situation without blatantly admitting his discomfort. Bilbo's gaze was searching and Thorin fought the urge to fidget. _He knew, Bilbo knew,_ his mind screamed at him, but he kept his expression even, preparing for Bilbo to ask—

"Are you any good with maths?"

Thorin blinked. "What?"

"Well, I was doing inventory, you see, and I'm bloody awful with maths, more of a book person really," at this Bilbo gestured to the stack in his hands, and when Thorin didn't respond, he continued, "would it be too much to ask your help?"

Thorin stared at him. "With maths?"

"Mm," Bilbo said in reply, furrowing his brow. "Perhaps not. You seem a bit slow."

"I am _not_ —" Thorin began indignantly, but stopped and huffed in exasperation when he saw Bilbo's wide smile just as he turned and headed for a small table. He rolled his eyes. Hobbits.

"Prove it, then," Bilbo said, glancing back with a flash of white teeth. He settled into a chair and looked expectantly at Thorin, patting the seat next to him.

Sighing, Thorin rolled his eyes and made his way over, settling into the empty seat. "What happened to 'only civil in polite company?'"

"I'm polite company," Bilbo replied easily, grinning. Thorin couldn't help but wonder what, in the span of a few hours, could change Bilbo's opinion of him so drastically that he was constantly smiling at him.

"I thought you disliked me," Thorin said, and he didn't exactly mean for those words to be spoken out loud, but he decided, after he'd said them, that he truly did wish to know. Because this, this tentative peace they had, was new territory and he was never much good with new experiences. It was almost guaranteed that he would lose his way. 

Bilbo blinked at him in surprise, before shrugging. "I did, honestly, in the beginning. Practically loathed the fact that we breathed the same air," he muttered. He looked up then, face reddening, and rushed to assure, "but I don't anymore!" 

"Why?" Thorin asked, very interested in the reply.

Bilbo stared at the wood of the table, furrowing his brow. "Well, it wasn't like... I—I wasn't at my best when we first met. I said some things I shouldn't have. You didn't deserve that and I'm sorry."

Thorin opened his mouth to protest, because he was more than willing to admit that his actions that day had been petty at best, childish at worst. "You were not in the wrong. I acted shamefully and I wish to apologize. Truly."

Bilbo considered him for a moment, before quirking a small smile. "That's three apologies tonight. Are you sure you aren't ill?"

"I am serious," Thorin said. He wanted Bilbo to know. His first attempt had not gone off well, and he couldn't blame Bilbo for that.

"I know," Bilbo said, "and I am as well. It takes two, after all. I was rather hoping we could just... put it behind us? Start fresh, so to speak." Bilbo glanced at him, then at his hands in his lap. "I mean, it only makes sense, with our situation and all."

Right.

"Yes," Thorin replied, clearing his throat, "that might make things easier."

"Yes, that's, yes," Bilbo said, his voice trailing off at the end. "Right," Bilbo exclaimed, opening one of the books in front of him, smiling again, "could you possibly make some sense out of this column, because I certainly can't."

"I'll see what I can do." Thorin took a look at the content, and asked, "food supplies? Stockpiling? Seems a bit unnecessary." He glanced up, and frowned when he saw Bilbo's expression, drawn and serious.

"It's always better to be prepared," Bilbo said, looking away. He stopped, and Thorin was about to fill the silence when Bilbo muttered, "it's been getting colder."

Thorin blinked. "It's August."

"Yes, well," Bilbo replied, "like I said. Best to think ahead."

Thorin paused. "But why is it that _you_ are doing this? Couldn't you—"

"I didn't ask you to stay so you could interrogate me," Bilbo snapped.

Thorin clenched his jaw and turned back to the paper in front of him. "Apologies," he muttered, only slightly sarcastically.

He heard Bilbo sigh, but he didn't say anything more. Thorin snatched up the quill on the table and scratched out a faulty calculation, correcting it in the margin. The silence made him somehow uncomfortable, which was strange as he usually revered the quiet. He supposed it was because Bilbo always managed to find something to say, and now that he was silent the air felt unnatural. A thought popped into his head and he asked, "is it your mother's birthday? Since you've ordered a cake for her, I mean."

He had hoped to get Bilbo talking again, but instead the hobbit stiffened next to him. Thorin was about to backtrack, actually looking up at him in concern, but Bilbo said, voice blank, "yes, it is."

Thorin waited a moment, but it didn't seem like Bilbo would say any more. "And will she be joining us at any time tomorrow?" Thorin ventured. "I'm sure we'd all be glad to meet her."

"No," Bilbo said, and there was a note of tiredness in his voice. "She's rather... ill at the moment."

"Oh," Thorin said, regretting his question. "I'm sorry."

At that, Bilbo smiled wryly. "Don't be. It's not your fault."

There was something in his voice that sounded hard, but Thorin didn't think it was anger. It was... something else. "Nevertheless," Thorin tried earnestly, "I hope she improves."

"Yes," Bilbo replied softly, "so do I."

Swallowing, Thorin glanced back down at the page, and said, "I believe everything else is correct."

"Thank you. I'll admit, I likely never would have finished without your help." Bilbo looked about to say something else, but he was interrupted by a ray of sunlight shining into his eyes from one of the windows, and he leaned back slightly to escape it.

"Dawn," Thorin murmured. He had not realized how close the day had been, and was filled with relief. An idea struck him then, and he turned to Bilbo. "In Erebor, Dwalin and I would often wake at dawn and spar. Would—" he hesitated, then asked, "would there be anywhere we could do so here? Without worrying about disturbing the general public," he added wryly.

"Oh," Bilbo blinked, "I suppose... the Old Forest might work."

Thorin grinned, re-energized at the thought of _movement_ and the familiar distance that sparring brought _._ He would just be able to focus on his next approach, his next move, as opposed to everything else, and he couldn't wait to fall into that instinctual calm. "Great," he said, waiting. Bilbo merely stared at him. "Where would that be?" Thorin promoted after a moment, and Bilbo shook himself.

"Right! Just... um, just head west. You can't miss it."

"We'll see," Thorin smirked, standing up.

Bilbo's jaw actually dropped. "Was that a joke? Did you... make a joke? Actually?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Thorin replied, and Bilbo snorted. "I'll go get Dwalin up, then. If that's all you need, that is."

"Oh, no, that's," Bilbo smiled, waving a hand, "that's more than I expected I'd get done anyway, so please go enjoy yourself."

Thorin nodded. "Right," he said, heading for the door. "We'll return in a few hours."

"Oh, just go already," Bilbo shouted after him. Bilbo's laugh trailed out of the room, following him as he strode down the hall, and again he thought of Ori's description, what felt like so long ago, and smiled to himself.

 

* * *

 

Thorin walked leisurely, for the first time unburdened by worries or pressing problems, and he had long since forgotten most of his recent dream. There was a familiar, almost soothing ache in his muscles, and he was happy to have been able to release some of his frustration through practiced swings of his sword. The low breeze was a welcome distraction from the heat radiating from his body, and, sighing, he closed his eyes and imagined he had just come from the training barracks where he and Dwalin had so often passed the time. He was so distracted by memory that he barely noticed the distinctly hobbit shaped person in a tree a few feet away. Rolling his eyes, he chastised himself. It wouldn't do to let his instincts grow fuzzy—even if the Shire was possibly the most nonthreatening place he had ever been.

Coming up underneath the tree revealed the hobbit was none other than Bilbo Baggins. Looking up at him, Thorin somewhat confusedly observed, “Master Baggins, you are in a tree.”

Bilbo did not startle, to Thorin’s mild disappointment, nor did he give any physical indication of having heard. Then, in a voice dry as the autumn leaves, Bilbo replied, head tilted against the thick trunk, “astute observation, Master Dwarf. What will you deduce next?”

Thorin snorted, raising an eyebrow. “Are you stuck?”

“Stuck?!” Bilbo squawked indignantly, though, Thorin noted, there was a small smile on his face. “I am not some clueless cat.”

There was a beat of silence, and Thorin continued to stare at Bilbo. The hobbit was strange, in some ways, but Thorin found that those quirks only made him more curious about him. Bilbo’s slight sigh was piercing in the quiet midday air. His mood seemed to be gloomier than it had been in the early morning. “Did you want something?” Bilbo asked.

“I was bid to tell you by Master Boffin that your order is now ready,” Thorin said, leaning against the base of the fir and craning his neck in order to better see the hobbit. “You're welcome.”

“Griffo?” Bilbo murmured. “When did you—” he continued, finally glancing down at him, but when he did his eyes widened and his face turned pink.

Thorin stared back, slightly alarmed at the change in Bilbo’s demeanor. Bilbo seemed to tilt too far to one side, causing him to slip and nearly lose his grip on the branch, before he hurriedly righted himself. “I—” Bilbo began stuttering rather breathlessly before Thorin could ask if he was well, “You—you sweat with— _met with_ Griffo?”

“...Yes,” Thorin answered slowly, considering the hobbit with concern. “On my way out to the forest with Dwalin.”

“You—oh, that—” Bilbo said, eyes darting between Thorin’s face, the branch, and the sky, seeming to be unsure of where to look. He glanced at him again, face growing impossibly more red, and suddenly blurted, “where's your shirt?”

Thorin stared at him incredulously, before chuckling softly. He had forgotten about hobbits and their... delicate sensibilities. "I removed it," he shrugged, and then, sending a smirk upwards he added, "it was _sweaty._ "

Bilbo's complexion was a delightfully dark shade of pink now, and to Thorin's amusement, he grabbed a pinecone and chucked it at him. Thorin easily dodged it, but he had to admit, the hobbit had impeccable aim. "Oh, just bugger off, will you," Bilbo grumbled, but there was no real heat to his words.

“No, I don't think so,” Thorin replied, one corner of his mouth curving up.

Bilbo glanced down at him, arms crossed, but something in his eyes seemed to soften. “You know, you should smile more. It makes you look more approachable.”

Thorin blinked and immediately schooled his expression, clearing his throat. “That's ridiculous,” Thorin grumbled, reaching an arm up to scratch at his neck in an unconscious gesture, but he trailed off when Bilbo’s face grew red again. “Really?”

Bilbo rolled his eyes and he huffed in exasperation. “I cannot in good conscience allow you to go traipsing around the Shire all... exposed. There’s already enough gossip surrounding us as it is.”

“Oh?” Thorin hummed, settling himself down against the base of the tree and closing his eyes, groaning as he stretched his sore muscles. “And what are your hobbit folk saying of us?” There was something to be said of the Shire and its qualities. In Erebor there had never been time to enjoy a breath of fresh air without some pressing need bearing down on his shoulders like armor. Now, he could not help but acknowledge there was something about this place, in the speckled shade of this tree, which left him feeling unburdened and free. Or perhaps it was not the place, a traitorous corner of his mind whispered. Perhaps it was the company.

“Thorin!” Bilbo squeaked, and Thorin chuckled as he pictured Bilbo’s scandalized expression. “This is _not_ the appropriate place to take a nap.”

“You _hobbits_ ,” Thorin murmured, shifting slightly and throwing an arm behind his head. “You are such strange folk. You claim to be creatures of the earth and still, I've yet to see you enjoy the sunshine.”

He heard Bilbo splutter above him. “What—what do you think I was _doing_ before you—”

“You are not sleeping well. That's why you were working in the library through the night,” Thorin interrupted, and the answering silence spoke for itself. He was all too familiar with sleepless nights, recognized the signs of it in others' faces just as well as his own. The dark smudges under Bilbo's eyes and the way his gaze seemed to drift off had been the greatest indications. He would not pry as to what seemed to plague Bilbo, as he did not ask after Thorin's troubles last night. He was grateful for that. It wasn't something he was eager to admit to. Bilbo had been kind, accommodating—had genuinely tried to make amends. Perhaps there was something about the cold, inherent loneliness of the dark hours between dusk and dawn which brought to light how futile their squabbling was.

Thorin could not help but feel like he should do something—but what could he do? He suffered from the same, and his condition hadn't improved much. "I don't see what that has to do with anything," Bilbo finally mumbled, and now Thorin could hear the unguarded exhaustion in his voice. Still, however, there was that stubborn indignation in it that made him smile.

A brief memory flashed into his mind, of his brother, still young and wide-eyed, slipping into Thorin's bed after he had had nightmare. Frerin had ignored his grumbled protests and snuggled up against him silently, and though Thorin had huffed and complained, when he fell asleep again, his brother at his side, the rest of the night had passed dreamless and blissful. Thorin yawned and spoke before he thought, just letting the words loose for once, without fear of the consequences.

“Come and rest in the sunshine, Master Baggins,” Thorin mumbled in reply, and he was too content in that moment to care if his words were bolder than they should have been.

In the next moment, he heard only the call of the birds and the wind, but then he heard the almost tentative sound of fingers and feet scraping lightly against bark, and suddenly there was a warm presence beside him. Thorin was just aware enough to smile, a brief tug of his lips, before slipping into a light slumber in the warmth of the afternoon.


	9. Time Won't Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters, things will start to pick up and plot will finally develop. *sings praises* Hope you all enjoy. Hold on to your butts.

“You killed him!” Frodo’s voice filtered through Thorin’s consciousness.

“I did not kill him,” Bilbo’s voice came next, sounding as groggy as Thorin felt.

“And in plain daylight, no less. That's bold, Bilbo.” Was that... Frerin?

Groaning, Thorin opened his eyes and sat up. He glanced to his left and saw Bilbo, leaning against the trunk of the fur and rubbing his head with an irritable expression. “Mister Thorin!” came Frodo’s voice again, and he looked, blinking the haze out of his eyes to see Frodo sitting on Frerin’s shoulders. “You're alive!”

“Course I'm alive,” he mumbled, then yawned. “You think your uncle could really take me on?”

“Oi,” Bilbo interjected, sending a fuzzy glare at him. “I could. If I wanted to." Shifting his glare to Frerin and Frodo, Bilbo promised, “I don't know which one of you threw that pinecone at me, but I will find out.”

"Uncle faced trolls, remember?” Frodo stated matter of factly to Thorin, brushing off Bilbo’s empty threat. “You're much smaller than a troll.”

At that, both Bilbo and Frerin sent Thorin pointed looks. Thorin rolled his eyes and got to his feet. "Ridiculous. I don't have to listen to this," he said, mock-exasperated, but he gave Frodo a wink when the boy looked worried that he had actually caused offense.

“And where,” Bilbo exclaimed, shooting up, “do you think you're going?”

"I know where you _should_ go," Frerin interjected, raising an eyebrow. "Balin wants you. Some dreary contractual things he wants to talk to you about. I already suffered through it. Mahal, if I ever see another clause or addendum, I'll rip out my beard."

“There. You see?” Thorin turned to Bilbo, ignoring his brother’s melodrama. “I'm going to find Balin,” Thorin said, then smirked, “why? Missing me already?”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes at him. “Aren't you forgetting something?”

At Thorin’s blank look, Bilbo added, “something important? Something we’ve already discussed?”

“Your dignity?” Frerin piped up, and Thorin glared at him.

Bilbo mumbled something that sounded like, “not far off, really,” but Thorin wasn't sure. Louder, he said, “I've told you, you cannot return to town looking like that. Lobelia’s got a nose for impropriety, and if she finds you she’ll tear you apart in a second.” He cringed. "And then she'd come after me."

“Finds him looking all debauched, you mean?” Frerin clarified, and Thorin sighed when he saw Frodo’s lips move, sounding out the word with a puzzled expression.

He turned back to Bilbo, expecting a stern reprimand or something equally befitting, but instead there was a pink tinge to his cheeks. “Just—just,” he began, looking at Frerin, and then, sighing, he whirled to face Thorin and pointed at him. “Just put some bloody clothes on,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I'm going to go see Griffo. I trust when I see you next you will have recovered your decency.”

“As you wish,” Thorin replied, fighting a smile at Bilbo’s insistence. More hobbit than dwarf indeed.

“I can help!” Frodo said enthusiastically. “Don't worry, Mister Thorin. Aunt Lobelia _looooves_ me,” he claimed, drawing out the word with wide eyes. “She's still scary, but not to me, so it's okay. Sam and I found out she really likes it when you compliment her. You can use that strategy.”

“Thorin would be utterly outmatched without your help,” Bilbo agreed.

"So I can go with them?" Frodo asked hopefully.

Bilbo glanced between Thorin and Frerin, and Thorin felt satisfied when Bilbo's gaze settled on Frerin when he asked, "I don't know. Do you think they'll behave?"

"Yes! I'll make sure!" Frodo assured, gesturing with his hands so that Frerin had to duck awkwardly to avoid being hit in the face.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow at Frerin, who raised a hand with a solemn expression. "Dwarf's honor."

Thorin snorted. "What honor?"

Frerin frowned at him, but Bilbo laughed, and that was good enough for Thorin.

"You know, when I threw that pinecone, I was aiming for you, you ponce," Frerin grumbled, wincing when Bilbo reached up and swatted his head with an exclaimed, "I knew it was you!"

"Your aim has always been terrible. That's why you were not allowed in combat with a bow and arrow like you wanted," Thorin said smugly.

"I _knew_ you were the one who told Addâd—"

"You were a danger to society—"

"Yavanna," Bilbo sighed, rolling his eyes. "I'm leaving before I regret the decision to let Frodo go with you."

"It's not as if we're taking him across Arda," Thorin argued, and Frodo agreed with a curt, "yeah!"

"Are you quite sure about that?" Bilbo asked, and Thorin could see the beginnings of a smile. "With your skills it's rather up in the air, isn't it?"

Bilbo turned with a wink before Thorin could respond, leaving with a brief, "make sure they don't kill each other, Frodo."

"'Kay!" Frodo called back, nonplussed.

Thorin snapped his mouth shut when Frerin began to laugh.

Hobbits.

 

* * *

 

“So,” Frerin began, and Thorin internally cringed because that tone was never a good sign with his brother.

“No,” Thorin said immediately, keeping an eye on Frodo who was leading the way back into the forest.

“Already on the defensive, I see.”

“Frerin,” Thorin warned, but his brother ignored him.

“I was just going to say, you don't waste much time. I look away for one minute and you're already sleeping toge—”

 _"Frerin,"_ Thorin growled, prompting Frodo to look back curiously. For his sake, Thorin managed a small smile, and Frodo grinned back. Frerin, the bastard, had no difficulty in grinning broadly and waving.

As soon as Frodo turned back around, Thorin hissed, “it _was not_ like that.”

Frerin raised his hands. “Fine,” he conceded, nodding to himself. “Of course, you're right.”

Thorin eyed him suspiciously when he said nothing else. Frerin remained quiet, and Thorin’s attention had just shifted to Frodo once again when his brother said innocently, “but you do _like_ him.”

“Because I _must_ ,” Thorin whispered angrily, trying to keep his voice down. His stomach had twisted with Frerin’s words but he buried that particular feeling. What did it matter? This was politics. A business transaction. Bilbo had very clearly affirmed that. “One of us has to. Or did you forget _why_ we are here?”

“Pfffft,” Frerin said, waving a hand, his expression unfazed. “Please. I saw you two that first day. You couldn't be _forced_ to like each other if you tried. One or both of you would spontaneously combust. No, something must have changed while I was looking the other way, and I'm very curious as to what it was. Besides,” Frerin continued, shrugging, “even in the unlikely event that I'm wrong—”

“You _are—_ ”

“ _In_ the event that I am wrong,” Frerin repeated, “you shouldn't worry yourself over the whole marriage arrangement thing—”

“ _Marriage arrangement thing?”_

“Yes, excellent, you're very good at repeating things, Thorin—”

Thorin swiped at him, but Frerin sidestepped quickly. “This is not a _joke_ , Frerin,” Thorin scowled, and he was truly angry with his brother in that moment, because they were there for their kingdom’s sake, and if one of them did not stay, did not _marry,_ then Erebor would be at the mercy of winter without substantial supplies.

“If you would have let me finish,” Frerin said irritably, and where did he get the gall to be _irritable,_ “you would have known that if you are telling the truth and you are forcing this relationship with Bilbo, then I'll do it instead.”

Thorin stopped walking.

“What?”

“I said, I'll do it instead," Frerin repeated, stopping beside Thorin with a raised eyebrow. "Are you not awake yet? Your comprehension skills seem to be lack—"

"You were against this from the beginning," Thorin accused, still trying to process his brother's almost flippant revelation.

"Yes, well," Frerin shrugged. "Bilbo's not bad at all. I'll admit I was expecting some stuffy, stick-up-the-arse type, but thank Mahal that's not the case. And he's rather cute, isn't he?"

Thorin stared at him. "You—you—" he began, stopped, breathed a deep breath, then tried again. "You're not thinking clearly. I will not allow you to do this."

Frerin's eyebrows crept up to his hairline. "You'll not _allow_ me?"

"No," Thorin said immediately, stopped, then nodded. "This responsibility falls on me."

"But you don't like him," Frerin immediately pointed out.

"What?"

"You don't _like_ him."

"I... No, I didn't—"

"So it only makes sense—"

"Frerin—"

"That it be me."

"No, it doesn't—"

"Why?"

"Because—"

"I don't understand your logic, Thorin."

"Because I _do—_ " Thorin began, frustrated, but he snapped his mouth shut as soon as he realized what was about to come out of it.

Frerin's eyes widened and he exclaimed, pointing, "ah ha! I knew it! I bloody knew it!"

“You...” Thorin stared at him. “You lying little—you never wanted to stay.”

Frerin looked affronted. “No need to lash out. And for the record, I honestly wouldn't mind much,” Frerin admitted, and when Thorin stared blankly at him, he elaborated, “if I were the one to stay.” At Thorin’s dubious expression, he added, “I really do think highly of him, but things would only be friendly between us. You know I don't usually fancy lads,” he finished with a shrug. “Though I suppose you were a bit distracted, weren't you.” Before Thorin could respond to that statement, Frerin added with a grin, “not thinking straight.”

Thorin scowled at him. “Was that a pun?”

Frerin’s smile widened exponentially. “Only if you want it to be,” he smirked.

Thorin sighed loudly and admitted, through gritted teeth, “I don't _hate_ him. That’s all I'll say.”

“So you like Uncle, Mister Thorin?” came Frodo’s voice, politely questioning, and Thorin rubbed at his temple, feeling a headache coming on. He had completely forgotten the boy was there, and the fact that he had heard everything was mortifying. He looked over to see Frodo clutching his tunic in one hand, head tilted.

“I found your shirt,” Frodo explained, “while you two were arguing. Is it true, Mister Thorin? Are you going to marry Uncle Bilbo?”

Before Thorin could respond, Frerin clapped him on the back and announced, “that's what we’re hoping!”

Frodo moved to stand in front of Thorin, and said seriously, blue eyes wide, “don't worry, Mister Thorin. Uncle smiles more when he's with you.” With that, Frodo held out Thorin’s shirt, and he took it wordlessly, blinking. “I'm going to go find, Sam,” Frodo informed them with a smile. “And Mister Thorin," he added, gesturing that Thorin stoop down, "I think Bilbo needs a Sam. Someone he can talk to. You're Bilbo's Sam."

Frodo smiled widely and nodded to himself. With a goodbye that felt curt to Thorin, Frodo's easy declaration running through his head, Frodo headed off the way they had come. "I should probably go with him," Frerin mumbled. "Do you think?"

Thorin blinked, straightening slowly. "Probably," he murmured.

"Right," Frerin said, then clapped Thorin on the shoulder again, and Thorin just managed to get in a good whack at his head in retaliation before he was gone, following Frodo with an exclaimed, “don't get lost!”

Thorin almost wished Frodo wasn't in the immediate vicinity so he’d be free to yell colorful expletives at his brother’s retreating form.

 

* * *

 

Thorin made what he believed to be his third round of the same corridor, silently cursing the fact that all of Bag End’s doors appeared the same. Balin had told him, briefly, whereabouts his room had been, but he couldn't for the life of him find the hall that matched his description. Of course, he thought, stalking through yet another corridor, he didn't see another soul. It figured, that he would run into people when he did not wish to and wander directionless and alone when he did. Grumbling to himself about hobbit architecture, he chanced a room which may have, if he squinted, matched Balin’s description.

Thorin knocked. No answer. He knocked again, louder, and again hearing no response, he pulled away. Pausing for a moment, he reached down and tried the doorknob. The door opened without even a creak, and he took his chances and stepped inside. Looking around as his eyes adjusted, he could see the room was fairly large, but then again, all the guest rooms seemed to be. He made to step further in and call Balin’s name, but immediately stopped, foot halfway raised, eyes wide.

It was not Balin’s room.

Lying in the bed against the far wall of the room was a woman—a hobbit—asleep, and suddenly even his breathing seemed to be making too much noise. Immediately, he clapped a hand over his mouth. He was cursed. He decided. This kind of run of bad luck wasn't normal, even for him. Gritting his teeth, he slowly stepped backwards, but to his horror the floor creaked underneath his foot. He immediately lifted it, wincing, and he waited with baited breath. Exhaling gratefully when it seemed that she had not woken up, he turned as quietly as possible. His hand was inches from the door when he heard a lofty voice break the silence. “You know, a stranger in my rooms has led to many an interesting evening in the past. This instance, however, is particularly unexpected."

Closing his eyes slowly, Thorin sighed and turned around. He decided he was certainly, unquestionably cursed when he saw the hobbit’s face clearly.

He now knew where that peculiar tinge of green in Bilbo's irises came from.

The queen didn't seem to be angry, or anything close to it. Instead, she looked almost amused, eyes glittering and a shadow of a smile on her lips, and if Bilbo hadn't told Thorin she was ill he would never have guessed. "I apologize," he began, tongue tripping over the words in his haste to get them out, "I had thought this was my friend's room—"

"More dwarrows, are there?" she asked curiously, sitting up slightly against the headboard. "I knew I was missing out on something."

"I..." Thorin tried, stopped, frowned, and said, "I'm sorry, but... you were not aware that we...?"

"Well, no one told me anything about it," she chuckled. "Heard whispers from the maids, but I could never quite pinpoint what or who they were talking about."

She smiled at Thorin then, and really _what_ was happening, he was a stranger who had walked in on her out of the blue and here she was greeting him with easy humor and a smile _,_ and Thorin blurted the only thing he could think of saying. "I'm here to marry your son—?" He blanched. Mahal, why.

"Oh, dear," she said after a moment, and though she didn't appear angry—Thorin was beginning to think she was incapable of it—there was a quiet solemnity to her face. "I think you should start from the beginning," she said, and gesturing to a chair by the bed, continued, "please, sit down."

When Thorin hesitated, still silently cursing his nonexistent verbal filter, she laughed softly, suddenly reminding Thorin of Bilbo. "I promise I won't bite."

Slowly, he moved to sit. This afternoon was taking a strange turn, and he was slightly wary—he did just barge into this woman’s _bedroom—_ but there was something disarming about Bilbo’s mother, something that made him more at ease than he normally was with strangers. Queen Belladonna studied him for a moment, before saying, “I suppose, either Bilbo has been secretly seeing you for at least a few years, and you two have just now decided to reveal it, or this is something that neither of you planned, and have seen yourselves forced into. Am I in any way catching on?”

Thorin blinked. “I...” he began, because really, it wasn't even certain that _he_ would be the one to marry Bilbo, and he racked his brain to find some way to explain that particular stipulation. “Yes and no,” he said finally, then rushed to add, “to the latter. I... We, my brother and I, only were introduced to your son yesterday.”

“And you are?” she prompted with a small smile.

“Thorin. Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain.”

“Pleasure,” she said easily. “I suppose you already know who I am?” she asked next, and Thorin nodded.

“So, this was a formal arrangement?”

“Yes. There was a contract, of sorts, between Erebor and the Shire. In exchange for yearly supplies from the Shire’s reserves, Erebor will provide the Shire with protection."

Her expression suddenly turned disapproving, and Thorin worried for a moment that it was directed at him. "And I assume my husband had a hand in arranging this?"

“Um... I believe it was he that my father spoke with,” he answered hesitantly.

The queen shook her head, expression warring between irritation and disbelief. “That hobbit, I swear. I will have _words_ with him,” she grumbled, then looked at Thorin and asked, tone thankfully lighter, “so you are to marry my son?”

“Yes,” Thorin said, then before he forgot, added, “Bilbo is to choose between myself and my brother, Frerin.”

The queen’s gaze somehow became sharper, more calculating, and if she had not been smiling slightly Thorin would have been terrified. “Already on a first name basis, I see,” she noted, and her smile quirked up a bit higher when Thorin spluttered in response.

"Oh—no, that's—I didn't mean—"

At this, she laughed, but after a moment she stuttered to a stop and clutched at her ribs, a pained expression flitting across her face. Thorin leaned forward, apologies tumbling out of his mouth, but she waved him off. "Oh, don't fuss, please. I’ll be right as rain once I get my breath back. And don't you go apologizing. In fact, I should apologize to you."

"You're..." Thorin frowned. "Why? You've done nothing to offend."

She merely looked at him for a moment. "I know," she began slowly, "how much dwarrows value their Ones."

Thorin stiffened at that, and she must have seen it, but she continued, "and I know that this may have robbed you of the opportunity to find yours. For that, I'm sorry."

Thorin closed his eyes for a second, sighing. "That's... It's not..." he tried, then blew out a breath, frustrated. The queen didn't interrupt, and let him gather his thoughts. "Ones are predestined to us only very rarely," he managed. "It is more common that the bond is formed by a mutual, natural connection. But there are many dwarrows who never experience the pull, and remain content with a partner of their choosing. Truly, it is not some devastating thing as you imply."

The queen considered him, green eyes sharp and focused and Thorin had the brief thought that this was something she and Bilbo shared, the uncanny ability to look and somehow _know._ "And yet," she murmured, almost inaudibly, then she shook her head and smiled. "Of course, I didn't mean to put a somber mood on things. You say you're already acquainted with my son?"

"Yes, we met a day ago," Thorin said, and he couldn't help but let out a huff of a laugh when he remember those particular circumstances.

"What?" the queen asked, smile suddenly sly, "Was it memorable?"

"Well," Thorin began, "we didn't... get on entirely... there was—well, it all happened very quickly and—and there was flour—"

"Flour? Oh, Yavanna, I must hear this."

After much coaxing, Thorin eventually told the story. Leaving the queen grinning broadly and chuckling. “I can imagine that very well,” she informed him. “Bilbo has always been a bit stubborn. Seems as if you are quite the match.”

Thorin blinked. “Was that a veiled insult _and_ a compliment?”

The queen raised an eyebrow. “Don't know what you mean.”

“Oh, of course,” Thorin assured with a small smile. A glance out the window told him the sun was already beginning to go down. “I should really find Balin,” he said, standing up, “but it was a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, please, call me Bella. Or at the very least Belladonna. Everyone else does.”

“Belladonna, then,” Thorin said, inclining his head slightly. “Good evening.”

He was stopped on his way to the door by Belladonna’s voice, suddenly saying, “you know, I was just speaking with my son earlier this afternoon. He brought me a pastry, you see, and I can't help but wonder if that and the mishap with your meeting was connected.”

When Thorin glanced back at her, she was studying him, eyes unreadable. “Bilbo, I think, almost slipped and mentioned your name. ‘Was out with Frodo and Th—’ was what he said, or almost said, I suppose. Finished it off with some nonsense about thistle bushes or something,” she snorted, shaking her head, “I don't know what kind of foolhardy plan this is, trying to keep me out of the loop like somehow I'd be dense enough not to figure it out—”

At this, she stopped herself, looking apologetically at Thorin when he shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry darling, that's not what I was getting at. I just wanted to let you know that when Bilbo was telling me that, he was smiling, and I haven't seen that boy smile, really smile, in a long time. I don't know you, not really, but my son seems to hold you in high regard,” she told him, eyes bright, as Thorin gaped at her. “I would hope you do well to deserve that."

Eyes wide, Thorin nodded mutely. Her expression softened. "I wouldn't look so grave. Things have a way of working themselves out,” she assured him with a wink.

 

* * *

 

Thorin headed out of Balin's room, satisfied that he finally managed his way around and located it entirely on his own. Balin had wanted to speak with him about the particulars of the arrangement—clauses and subclauses on the nature of the marriage, political titles, and protocol concerning what should happen if one of them were to die suddenly and inexplicably—which Thorin noted were of a somewhat morbid sort. Still, he supposed, it wasn't wrong to prepare for possible eventualities.

Balin had asked him to seek out Bilbo, as he had already spoken with Frerin, and Thorin had obliged with the parting comment, "not an errand boy, Balin," to which Balin had responded, "might as well be."

At least, Thorin thought, he knew where Bilbo’s room was. Probably.

Rounding a corner, Thorin saw what he believed to be his own door, which meant Bilbo’s would be just across from it. To be safe, Thorin tested his door, pushing it open slightly and peeking in to make sure it was his. Thankfully, he could see his bags and his sword propped up against the bed frame. In that moment, he was glad there was no one else in the corridor, because they would have seen his backside poking out of a half open doorway.

Closing the door, he turned to Bilbo's room and made to knock, the wood scraping against his knuckles and the sound echoing in the silence. There was no answer, but strangely enough the door must have been open, as it swung inward minutely beneath his hand. Pressing it open further, he looked inside to find an empty room.

Perhaps, Bilbo had gone out to see Griffo again? Wherever he was, he certainly wasn't there, and Thorin turned to leave, but as he was doing so something caught his eye, glinting from the corner of the room.

He stopped. He didn't know why, felt like his muscles had almost seized, but the reason didn't quite matter in that moment.

His feet were moving. He only belatedly realized, but that didn't matter either, no, the only thing that did was the item on the floor, so inconspicuous and small that Thorin should have missed it, and yet—

And yet.

It was a ring. A plain, gold band, and somehow like nothing he had ever seen before. He didn't know why it held his attention like it did, like it had called his name.

It was in his hands. He didn't know when he had moved to pick it up, but that didn't matter much. He rubbed it with a finger and the metal seemed to sing, a low, droning hum that wrapped itself around his mind. It sounded... sounded as if whispered voices were worming around the room, disembodied and still present, murmuring in some strange tongue.

But the ring shone, bright and gleaming, all the while.

"—in?"

He wondered if it was Bilbo's.

"—in."

He wondered if Bilbo would mind if he borrowed it.

"—orin!"

If not, he would take it anyway, because he _deserved_ it—

"Thorin!" he heard, a hand and an arm appearing in his field of vision, and he felt a stab of white hot anger— _they'll take it, take it from you—_ and instinct had his hand lashing out and grabbing at it, twisting viciously and pulling it towards him. There was a gasp of pain, and the sound made Thorin blink, because all he could think to describe it was _wrong, wrong, wrong._

Then he saw Bilbo’s face, scrunched up with discomfort and a faint, but noticeable trace of that fear in his eyes, and the ring slipped from Thorin’s grasp, an unnaturally loud thump, like thunder, ringing as it hit the floor. He released his grip on Bilbo’s arm immediately, jolting back as if burned. He could see white marks where his fingers had been, quickly turning an angry red, and he couldn't stop staring. “Thorin?” came Bilbo’s voice again, and he could hear it clearly, all concern and softness now, but that didn't make _sense_ because Thorin had _hurt_ him—

Bilbo reached out again, and Thorin took a step back, eyes wide. “I... I didn't,” he managed, but couldn't find a way to finish that statement, any pitiful excuses he could give for his behavior dying in his throat.

“I know,” Bilbo said in reply, and his voice sounded distant and strange.

Thorin chanced a look at him, expecting something reasonable like anger or disdain to be glaring back, but Bilbo wasn't looking at him. Instead, his gaze, pensive and wondering, was locked on that ring. “Don't... don't worry about it, Thorin,” Bilbo mumbled, and some part of Thorin thought it ironic that those words mirrored his mother’s even under rather different circumstances, “it wasn't... it's not your fault,” and at that, Bilbo’s mouth twisted and his brows drew together. “It's not... you,” he murmured, that strange expression flitting across his face again, not quite fear, but something almost like curiosity.

Bilbo stayed quiet after that, still staring at the cold trinket on the ground, not meeting Thorin’s eyes, and his words spoke of a nonchalance that Thorin didn't feel, couldn't feel around the heaviness in his gut. “I must go,” he forced out, already backing up towards the door.

Bilbo’s head snapped up, what looked like a protest on his lips, and Thorin couldn’t bear hearing anything like forgiveness from him. He was out the door before any more words were spoken, a sour taste in the back of his throat and his heart pounding in his ears.

He thought it something of a cruel joke. Azog had harmed Bilbo in his dream, but Azog was long dead. Thorin, on the other hand, was still there, still breathing, and it felt somehow like a vicious twist of fate.

There had always been a small part of him, a niggling, persistent voice in the back of his head, telling him he was just as savage and violent and _worthless_ as that foul Orc he had slain, so long ago.


	10. Some Truths Can Save Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is basically comprised of snapshots of several nights. Hopefully, that effect is presented. Enjoy ;)  
> **  
> Disclaimer: some of the lines are pulled directly from the film.

There had been knocking outside his door. It had persisted, for quite a while, but gradually tapered off. Now, there was only a somehow mocking silence, broken periodically by nearly imperceptible scraping noises.

He sat at the foot of his bed, tried, and failed, to stop the incessant shaking of his hands. He felt it, like a jagged drop, threatening to tip him over the edge, all grey around the corners of his vision and the absence of enough air in his lungs. He saw flashes of it, saw Bilbo's face intermingling with blood and dirt and death and it was too much. He despised being alone, sometimes. It was so easy to fall back into that pit of self-loathing and panic when there was no one there to pull him out. But even when there was, things usually turned for the worse.

He hurt people, everyone he touched, eventually, inevitably. Death and violence surrounded him like a cloud.

Still, he hated this. He hated that be could be reduced to a shaking, tattered _mess_ so easily.

Thorin wanted desperately to get out, needed to escape because Bilbo was right across the hall and Thorin couldn't even bear to think on him, let alone look at him. He felt trapped, like a caged animal, the walls of the room closing in around him.

There was that strange scraping at the door again, and Thorin growled at it. It must have been someone, someone who clearly didn't understand who he was and what he could do to those who he cared about as easily as breathing. Perhaps, in that moment, it was ironic that he couldn't seem to get enough air into his lungs. Standing up so abruptly the bed frame shook and his head spun, he took three quick strides to the door and yanked it open.

Of course, of course, it was Bilbo. The hobbit half fell inside, arms pinwheeling in an attempt to keep his balance now that the door had been pulled out from behind. Bilbo managed, after a moment, to stay sitting upright, an anchoring grip on the doorframe. Tilting his head back with a crooked smile, he drawled, "a little warning next time would be nice."

And of course, Bilbo was the same, smiling and bright, and somehow that made breathing all the more difficult. "What," Thorin mumbled flatly. Then, "what are you doing?" and he realized he sounded angry, but Mahal, Bilbo didn't make any sense, and Thorin was tired of it.

Bilbo's smile disappeared and he sighed. "Thorin, listen—"

"Out of my way," Thorin interrupted, because Bilbo didn't seem to recognize that Thorin was fully capable of hurting him again, and if Bilbo would not take action against that then Thorin would. When Bilbo didn't move, merely stared up at him with a disconcertingly calm expression, he repeated what he'd said, practically grinding the words through his teeth.

"Oh, sorry were you going to sleep?" Bilbo asked, though, Thorin noted, he didn't sound sorry at all.

"What?"

"Didn't think so," Bilbo said, rearranging himself so that his legs were crossed, scooting inside and gently closing the door, bypassing Thorin's slack grip on it. "So, since you're not going to sleep, and I'm not going to sleep, we might as well keep each other company."

He said it so casually, so offhandedly, that Thorin could almost pretend that their last interaction had been a fluke, something he'd imagined. But it hadn't been. It hadn't been, and Thorin didn't _understand_. At Thorin's flummoxed expression, Bilbo’s eyes darted away for the first time. "I don't..." he continued softly, and his head turned sharply toward the door as if his attention had been drawn elsewhere, before shaking his head once, eyes skirting over the floor. "I don't want to be in that room again."

Thorin stared at him. "So you come to me?" Thorin growled, and even he recognized that his tone was low and dangerous, but Bilbo met his eyes again and all Thorin saw was that steady, burning mix of green and grey, giving away nothing and seeing everything. "There's something wrong with you," Thorin chuckled, but there was no mirth in it at all.

It looked like Bilbo almost rolled his eyes in response, just barely stopping himself. "I want you to listen to me, Thorin," Bilbo said. "I know..." he began, but his voice tapered off and Thorin stared at him, curious now. "I know what it's like to feel... like you're not yourself."

“You what?” Thorin asked uncomprehendingly after a moment of silence, and Bilbo did roll his eyes at that.

Bilbo patted the space next to him with one hand. “Sit.”

“What? No—”

“Whatever you think you did that requires silent brooding and repentance, I forgive you for it. Sit.”

Thorin gaped at him. "You can't just—"

"I think you'll find that I can," Bilbo asserted, and when Thorin didn't move, he took Thorin's hand and pulled him down to sit next to him. It didn't require much effort on his part—Thorin didn't really offer up any resistance. He stared into the darkness of his room, sitting stiffly. He could feel Bilbo staring at him, but he didn't meet his gaze. Couldn't.

"I'd like to know you," Bilbo said out of the blue. “Really know you.”

Thorin tilted his head toward him slightly. "What?" he asked quietly, the question sounding large and resonant in the space around them.

"I know some things. I know you're brave," Bilbo stated without a hint of falseness, and Thorin's eyes snapped up to meet his in shock. "I know you care about your family. I know you'd do anything for your kingdom and your people. I know... I know you don't like sleeping because you're afraid of what you'll see," Bilbo finished tentatively, and Thorin felt wary but there was no judgement or question in Bilbo's voice. Bilbo swallowed, then added, "I know what that's like."

Thorin shook his head slowly. Bilbo still didn't _understand,_ didn't seem to comprehend—"I hurt you," he said abruptly, giving way to the words that had been eating at him all night, feeling the shame and self-loathing creep in like a cold chill. He glanced down at the slight bruising on Bilbo's forearm, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I hurt everyone.”

"You didn't mean to. You don't mean to," Bilbo responded immediately, without hesitation, as if it was that simple. But it wasn't. Couldn't be.

"But—"

"Did you want to hurt me?" Bilbo asked plainly, and the thought made Thorin's stomach twist.

"No," Thorin croaked. "Never."

"Then it was an accident, and I forgive you. You're not a bad person, Thorin. You're just a little grumpy sometimes," Bilbo finished with a smile, leaning in and bumping Thorin’s shoulder lightly.

Thorin didn't know how to respond to that. He didn't think he’d ever met anyone as readily capable of forgiveness as Bilbo Baggins.

Bilbo tilted forward to meet Thorin's eyes. "Okay?" Bilbo asked, and Thorin thought it was ironic that _Bilbo_ looked worried about _him_.

"Okay," Thorin said eventually, taking a deep breath and finally, finally feeling that vice around his lungs loosen. Thorin couldn't help but let out a helpless little laugh. "Okay."

It seemed as if the tension in the room immediately dispersed, and Thorin shifted, searching for something to say in the sudden change. Luckily, Bilbo filled the silence. He was good at that, Thorin thought absently. Good with people, filling in the spaces that Thorin lacked. "I wanted to ask..." Bilbo blurted, "I haven't traveled much," he suddenly admitted, flushing when Thorin frowned at him confusedly. "I—I just mean, it's not... not likely I will any time soon and I only... I only wanted to ask—" Bilbo cut off then, looking away in embarrassment, and that was such a rare expression on Bilbo's face. Thorin realized, then, that it was one he didn't like.

"Ask, then," he said, and it sounded as if he hadn't used his voice in months, but it was worth it when Bilbo looked back at him with wide, earnest eyes.

Bilbo glanced at the floor, at the space between them, for a moment, before looking back at Thorin. "What's Erebor like?"

Thorin didn't answer immediately. Of all the possible questions he had been considering Bilbo might ask, that had not been one of them. It seemed Bilbo had a knack for that. “I... Why?”

At this, Bilbo shrugged one shoulder, very nearly pulling off an air of nonchalance, but Thorin saw the nervous tapping of his fingers and heard the minute sound against the wood. He wondered when exactly he had learned to look for those things. "Erebor is a part of you just as the Shire is a part of me. And that part of you is important. Meaningful."

"What do you want to know?" Thorin asked, and he wasn't sure, but he felt as though there was something very important about this moment in the late night silence, something big and all encompassing and only for the two of them.

Bilbo looked at him, eyes bright and clear in the darkness. Thorin felt a hand settle over his own. "Everything," Bilbo said, and Thorin saw a small smile ghost over his lips.

 

* * *

 

It became routine. An unspoken agreement that whenever he or Bilbo could not sleep, they would spend their nights together. They would always meet in Thorin’s rooms, however, and Thorin chalked it up to Bilbo’s strange admission so many nights before. Occasionally, one or both of them would manage to fall asleep without difficulty. Other nights, they remained awake until the early hours of dawn, often filling the daunting emptiness of twilight with lazy conversations.

Thorin didn't know how Bilbo knew which nights Thorin didn't feel like talking much, but he somehow did, and he didn't ask why either, merely picking up the slack without commenting on it. Other nights, when Thorin found himself more talkative than usual, Bilbo would listen and smile and _care_ and Thorin—

Well.

Thorin didn't know what he'd do without that.

 

* * *

 

 

"So, there I was—barely knew how to hold a sword, let alone use one, I'll have you know,” Bilbo stated with such an expression that Thorin could practically feel the exasperation from so many years ago.

He chuckled, and Bilbo grinned in return and continued, “there I was, frantically swinging and slashing at things like a nutter,” he said, miming as he spoke, holding his hands together as if holding a sword and swinging so violently he almost hit Thorin in the face, “—oh, sorry—like a _nutter_ , trying to keep all my limbs intact, and of bloody course, one of the goblins manages to rip the sleeve off my jacket trying to grab at me—don't worry, didn't cause any damage, to my _person_ that is—” he added at Thorin’s briefly concerned expression, “and so, logically, I tell him off for it—”

“You what? You stopped to _berate_ him?” Thorin asked disbelievingly, and it's the first thing he’s said to Bilbo all night, his voice hoarse and almost inaudible, and that made sense, because only an hour earlier Thorin had been screaming himself awake, and it was a wonder he hadn't woken anyone _but_ Bilbo.

Despite this, Bilbo didn't miss a beat, staring at him like he was the crazy one. "That jacket was very comfortable," he said defensively, huffing, "and while it was dirty and stained from troll snot and what have you, it was _salvageable_ until that goblin just—" he cut off, snorting angrily. "No consideration for respectable attire," he trailed off grumpily, crossing his arms.

Bilbo huffed again in the quiet, shaking his head while Thorin looked on amusedly, before blurting, "and to top it off, that wasn't even the worst bit!"

" _No_ ," Thorin gasped in mock disbelief, and it hurt his throat, but it was worth it when Bilbo's laugh echoed through the room.

"Alright, alright," Bilbo protested, smiling, "it's quite obvious that you lack any meaningful coats in your life and I feel sorry for you—"

“Because I lack _coats_?”

“ _Meaningful_ coats, there’s a difference,” Bilbo argued, then exclaimed, “You’re distracting me!”

Rolling his eyes, Thorin motioned for him to continue, and Bilbo gave a little satisfied nod and said, “right, well, the next bit, I’m knocked clean off the platform, falling through the air and let me tell you, not a pleasant experience,” he shuddered. “But thanks to some miracle I am not squashed to death as I thought I would be, and I have just enough time to think, thank bloody Yavanna, before I hear something that is most certainly not a goblin—”

“Of course, they move with such distinctive sounds—”

“Shhh,” Bilbo scolded, flapping a hand at him, grin wide, “it's because this thing was talking to itself, but not like any normal creature, no, no, it was more like it was having a conversation with another creature inside itself, like...” Bilbo stopped talking for a moment, a look of concentration on his face, eyes flitting upward as if trying to remember something, and he hissed, in a voice that was not his own, _“Bagginses it says? What is a Bagginses, Precious? We like goblinses, batses and fishes. But we hasn't tried Hobbitses before. Is it soft? Is it juicy?”_

Thorin’s mouth curved into a small smile. “You're rather good at that.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo beamed, himself again. “I haven't had a chance to try it out yet. Couldn't show Frodo—it'd scare him too much, tough as he likes to act.”

“What did the creature want?”

“Well,” Bilbo began, tilting his head. “At first, he wanted to eat me.”

Thorin chuckled. “Seems a common theme.”

“Right? I don't really understand—is there something about me that strikes as particularly appetizing at first glance?” Bilbo asked jokingly, spreading his arms.

Thorin swallowed and attempted a teasing smile. “Haven't developed an affinity for hobbit. I couldn't tell you.”

“Shame,” Bilbo said, oblivious to Thorin’s reaction, shaking his head. “You know, something about being considered a delicacy is, in a strange way, somehow flattering. But, anyway,” he continued, and Thorin breathed a silent breath of relief, “I managed to get out of being the main course by challenging him to a game of riddles.”

Thorin stared at him. “Are you serious?” Bilbo nodded, and he snorted. “Riddles,” he murmured incredulously.

Bilbo considered him for a moment, before smirking and asking, “This thing all things devours: Birds, beasts, trees, flowers; Gnaws iron, bites steel; Grinds hard stones to meal; Slays king, ruins town, and beats high mountain down.”

“Um... were-worm,” Thorin tried, when Bilbo looked at him expectantly.

“No.”

“Dragon.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “You're thinking too big and scary.”

“Dwalin when he’s hungry.”

Bilbo laughed, eyes glimmering, and Thorin stared at him, wondering when he had first had the privilege to see Bilbo, unburdened and uncensored like this. Then, as the echoes of it faded from the room, Bilbo’s smile became slightly smaller, something gentler and secret. “Time,” he said softly, and there was a moment where the merely looked at each other without speaking. Bilbo's eyes flitted to the ground, his crooked grin returning, and, looking up, he poked Thorin in the chest lightly. “You lose,” he said, and Thorin smiled.

He didn't think so.

 

* * *

 

This night was almost absurdly peaceful. They sat together on the floor by the door—where it had began. Bilbo's head rested on Thorin's shoulder and Thorin could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest at his side. He wasn't asleep, Thorin knew, because when Bilbo was asleep he snored ever so slightly, and Thorin couldn't help but find it impossibly endearing.

They often spent the more tired, draining hours without speaking and Thorin had thought, for Bilbo at least, that would seem almost unnatural. Bilbo was always laughing and talking and Thorin was always somehow captivated when he did so with ease, because Bilbo was unshakeably in his element, no matter what. Perhaps Thorin shouldn't have been surprised that Bilbo also managed to fill the quiet with his presence, and while Bilbo didn't speak there was something of him tangible in the air, something that echoed when he breathed.

Without pretense, he found the ache of that missing part of himself bubbling up again. Surprisingly, he hadn't given it much thought until that moment. How out of place he could feel. The Shire, Bilbo's home, was where Bilbo thrived, what he knew, and Bilbo was so good at the give and take, at _adjusting_ to everything that came his way, and Thorin envied him a bit. He found the words forming before he’d given them much thought, with only a hint of hesitation, because for some ridiculous reason Bilbo seemed to care about the things that bothered him. “I miss it,” he said, quietly, carefully. “Erebor. Like an ache in my chest that won't go away.”

Thorin heard Bilbo’s breath hitch slightly, but he remained quiet. Bilbo knew, Thorin thought again, _masterfully_ , when words were necessary and when they were not. Thorin felt Bilbo’s hand slide into his own and squeeze softly, and he shifted closer, pressing himself against the entirety of Thorin’s side. Thorin felt something big and warm rise up in his stomach, but he didn't give it words. If he had, he might have revealed that that ache was almost gone. That he had found a kind of happiness he hadn't had in Erebor. That he wouldn't give this up for anything in the world.

That he had long since realized that strange pull, like a rope around his ribs, whenever Bilbo was around was not anxiety or fear, but something he had yearned to experience his entire life.

Frerin would call him a hopeless romantic if he knew, but Thorin had always wondered what it felt like. He knew, now, it was a constant burning, too pressing to be fully forgotten, and yet far from unbearable. It felt like a steady fire in the pit of his stomach, worming its way through his chest—a feeling light and tranquil and _right_.

But those words—those realizations—remained buried in his throat, working to escape every time he swallowed, every time he breathed.

 

* * *

 

 

The next night, Bilbo seemed off somehow—more fidgety, more jumpy, smiles not reaching his eyes—though he managed to drift off fairly easily into sleep, so Thorin at first paid it no mind. Soon, however, as Thorin had almost fallen asleep himself, he felt Bilbo twitch suddenly against him, making a pained sound. He was alert immediately, looking over and seeing silent tears tracking down Bilbo's face, his brow furrowed. "Bilbo," he said, keeping his voice steady, but firm, shaking him slightly. Bilbo hated being stuck in a dream for longer than he had to. "Wake up."

It took two more good shakes for Bilbo to jolt awake—it was always hard to drag him from his nightmares, and Thorin didn't envy him that. Normally, Bilbo would come to his senses in an instant, but tonight his eyes were foggy and panicked, rushed gasps tearing out of his throat. "Bilbo," Thorin repeated, trying to calm him down, "it's alright, you're awake." Swallowing, he added, "I'm here."

Bilbo's gaze snapped to him then, eyes still too wide, too frightened. Thorin couldn't help but think the expression looked _wrong_ on Bilbo’s features, because Bilbo was built for laughter and smiling wit, not fumbling fear in the dark. Thorin felt trembling hands touch his face, then travel down to his lips, and he froze against them. They remained, briefly, before Bilbo pulled back, and Thorin breathed out, only to tense up again when fingertips brushed his neck. He forced himself to relax, because this was _Bilbo_ , but his mind stuttered to a stop when he realized what Bilbo was doing. The two fingers Bilbo had pressed against the side of Thorin's neck were still shaking, and he was still crying, but his breathing was evening out and becoming less harsh. _Breathing_ , Thorin thought numbly, staring at him. Checking for breath. Checking for a pulse. “Bilbo,” Thorin murmured carefully. “Bilbo, I'm fine.”

Bilbo finally seemed to hear him then, eyes focusing on Thorin’s, and his face crumpled. He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Thorin’s midsection, burying his face in his neck, and _Mahal_ , he was still shaking like a leaf. Thorin returned the embrace slowly, cautiously, because comfort, or giving comfort, was not something he was very familiar with. Bilbo’s grip tightened when he did, and he choked out a sob, muffled against the fabric of Thorin’s shirt, but the sound resonated in the room all the same. “It's okay,” Thorin mumbled into his hair. “It's okay.”

He repeated it until the phrase seemed nonsensical, but every time he said it, he felt Bilbo’s breathing settle in small increments, so he thought, perhaps, he was doing something right. He continued his mantra until Bilbo fell back into an exhausted slumber, still lying against him, hands loosely fisted in Thorin’s tunic. “Don't leave,” he thought he'd heard Bilbo murmur, just before his eyes closed. “Please don't leave me.”

Thorin didn't let go.


	11. Coax the Cold Right Out of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so fun and so difficult to write ugh XD. Though, it turned out to be nice and long compared to most of the others, so hope you enjoy!  
> Also, bonus points to the people who spot the Princess Bride reference.

They were woken up by a knocking on the door, three taps in quick succession. Thorin's eyes snapped open immediately, a surge of adrenaline kicking in before he was even fully aware of the sound. Bilbo came awake with a snort and a murmured, "hu—wah?" and Thorin laughed softly at Bilbo's bewildered, put-out expression.

When Bilbo noticed Thorin was laughing at him, he smacked him on the arm, but they both turned to look at the door when the knocking started up again. They had opted to sleep in the bed that night, and now the length from where they lay to the fervent knocking seemed to span _miles._ Thorin rolled over, shoving his face into a pillow, and groaned. "You answer it," he mumbled.

"It's _your_ room," Bilbo protested sleepily.

"Which you commandeered."

"Ugh. No," Bilbo answered definitively, and Thorin felt the bed shake as Bilbo flopped back down next to him. "You go."

"Excuse me, Prince Thorin, sir?" came a nervous female voice, accompanied by two more taps. "I-I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, sir, but I really must ask you something. It's very important, otherwise, of course, I wouldn't disturb you, I swear!"

Thorin sighed. "Damn."

"Ha," Bilbo yawned. "Take that."

Rolling his eyes, Thorin got to his feet, making sure to yank the covers off as he did so, earning an irritated, groggy, "you _wanker_ ," from Bilbo.

Thorin walked to the door, bedsheets trailing behind him, and opened it, making sure to block the view of the inside. He was met with a small female hobbit with wispy blonde hair and wide brown eyes. "I'm sorry, Mister Thorin," she began, not meeting his eyes, "but I... I was sent to fetch Prince Bilbo from his rooms—King Bungo wants to meet with 'im, you see—but he wasn't there and I wondered—" She looked up at him then. "I wondered if you'd seen if he'd gone out or not? He... he has a habit of disappearing and I—I'd rather not tell the King his son is missing. He doesn't react well to that kind of news—least not anymore," she finished, her voice becoming quieter as if she were divulging some secret.

Thorin hesitated, turning to look back into the room, but Bilbo was already coming up behind him, slightly sleep mussed, sending him an apologetic smile. "'Lo, Rose," he said when he came to the door, and the hobbit's—Rose's eyes—widened.

"Bilbo!" she exclaimed, eyes darting between him and Thorin. Before Bilbo or he could say anything else, her expression became sly and she smirked. "Your father wants to see you," she said, then glancing at Thorin once more, she winked at Bilbo. "Sorry to distract from more important things. Don't worry, I won't say anything."

Bilbo's face reddened. "That's—that isn't—"

"We appreciate that," Thorin cut in, smirking when Bilbo, turned to him, slack-jawed.

Rose blinked at him once, before breaking out into a blinding grin. "Oh, I like you," she said, turning to go with a smile. "Nice catch, Bilbo," she called back, sending a brief, white glimpse of teeth, before turning the corner.

"We're not—" Bilbo spluttered after her, cutting himself off and heaving a sigh when she disappeared from view.

"She seems nice," Thorin said, fighting a smile when Bilbo turned an accusing finger on him.

"There's no need to encourage her. She's enough of a gossip as it is."

"Well," Thorin said, head tilting. "It wasn't entirely unfounded. She did find you here. In _my_ room," he emphasized, parroting Bilbo's earlier words.

Bilbo stared at him, mouth open slightly, before throwing his hands up. "Dwarves, honestly," he griped, making his way out the door. "I'm leaving. You're too ridiculous to be around at the moment."

"Dwarrows!" Thorin called after him.

"Yes, well, you've been demoted!"

Thorin snorted, watching Bilbo head down the hallway to his father's chambers, trying to preserve that pleasant warmth in his chest even as it grew less prominent as Bilbo moved away.

 

* * *

 

Thorin knew something was wrong even before he saw Bilbo's expression. There was a kind of heavy foreboding that had settled in his stomach not long after Bilbo left, keeping him on edge. It was as if he knew, instinctively, that something wasn't right.

"What is it?" Thorin asked, when he answered a tentative knock to find Bilbo, wringing his hands.

Bilbo's smile was slightly strained, and he leaned against the doorframe. "I... Could I come in?"

Thorin stepped to the side, allowing Bilbo room to pass. "You don't have to ask," he murmured.

He stared at Bilbo when he made no attempt to move, shifting against the doorframe, eyes downcast. "My father's made plans to announce the... engagement," Bilbo said slowly. "He said it would be fitting to have it on a day of celebration. My... my birthday. It's in a week, that's when—when the announcement will take place. He's... he's said I might still have time to... to decide. He'll merely introduce you all as a group. Allow some—" Bilbo cut off, looking up, and Thorin saw his throat work. "Some more time," he finished.

"Oh," Thorin said after a moment. "Did you," he began, swallowing. "Did you ask for more time?"

"I thought it might be helpful," Bilbo said, shifting. "Just... I'd rather not..." Bilbo looked up at him, then glanced away. "I'd rather not make the decision lightly."

"Right," Thorin said, feeling something sink in the pit of his stomach. "Of course." Bilbo's choice made logical sense, but Thorin still felt that light in his chest dim a bit. The moment he'd realized Bilbo was his One, things had seemed more manageable. Frerin wouldn't be tied in one place. Thorin could stay, wouldn't even mind it, with Bilbo by his side. But he found himself reviewing the past days in his mind, wondering if he had... if he had imagined things.

He'd heard of one-sided bonds. Mahal, he didn't even think hobbits had Ones.

It seemed cruel, that he had found his One under such impossible circumstances, only to have that connection possibly unrequited. Bilbo's eyes met his once more, and Thorin saw something peculiar in his face. "Thorin, I—" Bilbo tried, starting forward, and whatever he might have said, Thorin was afraid it would confirm that fear.

"You mentioned nothing of your birthday. I'm sure the others will be glad to celebrate it with you."

Bilbo stopped and stared at him, the sudden expressive turn to his face shuttering like the pull of a curtain. There was that false smile again, brief and almost mocking, and Thorin hated seeing it. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"What do you mean?"

"Just... It's going to be a big, gaudy affair and it... I know it'll just feel... fake. Everyone will be obliged to come, like it's some kind of mandatory event, even if they'd rather not—" Bilbo stopped and he seemed to shrink in on himself. "Sorry. It seems so stupid when I say it out loud, I—I'll just—" he said, turning to leave, but Thorin caught his arm.

"Your concerns are not stupid,” he said firmly, managing to meet Bilbo’s eyes. “You dislike the thought that some guests will not be genuine. That is a valid grievance.”

“I don't...” Bilbo began, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes briefly. “I don't know why, but I feel...” He paused. “I'm just... worried,” he finished, crossing his arms over his chest.

Thorin studied him for a moment. “I've not much experience with hobbit parties,” he said, and reveled in Bilbo’s short laugh. “ _But_ ,” he continued, making sure Bilbo was looking at him. “I'm sure it'll be fine. I'll be there. We,” he cleared his throat, “we’ll all be there.”

Bilbo’s smile was larger now, but still did not quite reach his eyes. “I know.” He nodded, flashes of that attempted smile coming and going like the flickering of a candle, his eyes still clouded with anxiousness. “I know. It'll be fine.”

 

* * *

 

“I want to do something for him,” was the first thing Thorin said the moment he found the others, all except Dwalin and Frerin playing cards in one of the drawing rooms.

“For who, Thorin?” Bofur asked, he and the other dwarrows glancing up at him excepting Nori, who took Bofur’s momentary distraction as an opportunity to sneak a peek at his cards.

“Bilbo.”

They all stared at him, and he felt his face flush. “You all know him fairly well,” he explained, face burning. Mahal, he needed to think things through. “I could use... help,” he finished lamely.

“Um... Perhaps you might tell us what exactly we could help with?” Ori suggested, smiling, oblivious to Nori swiping a card from his personal deck and replacing it with another.

Hesitantly, Thorin told them what he had been planning the moment Bilbo had left his room. When he finished, they were all grinning at him, and it was slightly disconcerting. “Sounds like a plan then,” Bofur exclaimed, setting his cards down. “Let's do it tonight. The way I see it, the sooner the better. ‘Bout time we had a little fun. More than Nori slowly drainin’ away our savings, anyway.”

“Because he’s a cheat,” came Dori’s outburst from the end of the table.

“Opportunist!” Nori corrected, smug, and Thorin snorted when Bifur glanced up with a long-suffering expression and a soft curse in Khuzdul, the humor in the situation helping him to forget his nerves. It was a good idea, he told himself. Bilbo would like it.

“Of course, we’ll help,” Ori assured. “Come on lads,” he said, pushing his chair back and standing up, the others following suit. “We've got some preparing to do.”

Balin was the last to leave the room, staring at Thorin with a knowing expression, though he hadn't said a word. “Shut up,” Thorin grumbled.

“I didn't say anything,” Balin countered with a raised eyebrow.

“Your face is very expressive. I could practically hear what you were thinking.”

Balin came up next to him, measuring him with a level stare. “Well. I'm not wrong, am I.” It wasn't a question.

“No,” Thorin murmured. “No, you're not wrong.”

 

* * *

 

Bilbo woke blearily and suddenly, heart beating inexplicably fast. After a few moments of his own harsh breaths ringing in his ears, he registered a knocking at the door. Of bloody course, had to be when he was actually sleeping soundly, didn't it? Bilbo wondered where Thorin was. He hadn't been there when Bilbo fell asleep, and had it been a week earlier Bilbo might've been anxious about that, but he had become accustomed to sleeping in a bed that was not his own. Thorin had told him he was welcome whenever he chose to stay, and Bilbo was eternally grateful for that, grateful that Thorin had not asked him why he hated the creeping darkness of his own room, with the chill of that... _thing_ in the corner.

Blinking rapidly in an attempt to shake off the remnants of sleep and the beginnings of darker thoughts, he tumbled gracelessly out of bed. Bilbo yawned, scratching the back of his neck, and murmured an almost inaudible, “Eru, calm down, I'm _coming_ ,” to the incessant noise outside.

He fumbled for the doorknob, missing it twice entirely, before finally swinging the confounded thing open to find Bofur grinning like a madman and Nori with that suspiciously innocent expression he wore when he was most certainly up to something. Bilbo blinked, rubbed his eyes, and blinked again. “Why.”

“Come on, Bilbo, time to get dressed,” Bofur commanded with a smile, taking hold of Bilbo’s hand and pulling him back into the room.

“What?” Bilbo murmured incredulously, sending Nori a fuzzy glare when the dwarf propped a muddy boot on the doorframe. “No, ugh, leave me alone. It is either too late or too early for this.”

“Oh, come now,” Bofur tutted, abandoning Bilbo’s arm to head for the door. “I’ll find somethin’ for ya. Ah, I have to go all the way across the hall—just move in entirely, why don't you.”

Rolling his eyes, Bilbo shuffled back to the bed, collapsing onto it face first. Distantly, he wondered how they had even known to find him here. He felt someone sit on the edge of the bed and determined it was Nori when a voice drawled, “I bet you're real cranky in the early morning, aren't you?”

“Ugh,” he groaned. “Leave. Did Thorin send you? Is this some sadistic prank?”

“Relax,” Nori chuckled. “Your boy toy didn't send us. Well, not directly." There was a pause. "He's with us in spirit.”

“I will murder you,” Bilbo mumbled, deadpan, into the pillow.

“Put this on, Bilbo,” he heard Bofur call, and felt something land on his head. Opening one eye, he grabbed at it, feeling the fabric of one of his plain dress shirts. “You’ll need some actual layers where we’re going. There’ll be a bit of a chill, I'd expect.”

“And where, exactly, have you convinced yourselves that we are going?” Bilbo muttered, forcing himself to sit upright.

Bofur and Nori wore such similar smiles it was almost frightening. “We found something rather interesting,” Nori began with a strange glance at Bofur, “down in the Old Forest.”

Bofur nodded in assent, the flaps of his hat bobbing with the movement. Bilbo looked between them, eyebrow raised. “Wow,” he said finally, when no clarification was forthcoming. “That’s...wow. I cannot tell you how exciting that sounds. Let me get my coat,” he said dryly, and he made a point of burrowing into his blankets.

Bofur rested a hand on Nori’s shoulder and waited a beat, watching Bilbo with twinkling eyes. After a few moments of their bizarre staring match, Bofur pointed out cheerfully, “but you're _not_ getting your coat.”

“No. No, Bofur I'm not.”

“We could carry you out, you know,” Nori said matter-of-factly.

Bilbo peeked at Nori, who was practically lounging on the end of the bed, grinning lewdly at him. "Out after dark with two roguishly handsome dwarrows, seen exiting a guest bedroom. Just think what the neighbors would say," Nori chuckled.

Bilbo blew a rush of air out through his mouth, rolling his eyes. Sliding out from beneath the blankets to a semi-vertical position on the floor, he groaned, “I hate you.”

“No, you don't,” Bofur chirped, as another article of clothing was thrown at Bilbo’s head.

Sighing, he stood up and took the trousers Bofur had thrown with him. “Fine. Fine, you dolts, fine. But I swear,” he said firmly, pointing a finger at them, “that if I don't thoroughly enjoy whatever it is you plan to show me, I’ll hide all the liquor from the kitchens. _All_ of it.”

“Fine,” Nori said, shrugging one shoulder, but Bofur put a hand on his chest with wide eyes.

“Wait, wait—what if he doesn't like it? I mean, there _is_ that possibility, mind you—”

“Oh, gods,” Nori laughed, sending Bofur a fond look. “If you are denied liquor here, I will get you some somewhere else, alright?”

Bofur looked at him suspiciously for a moment, before his bright grin returned. “Alright,” he agreed easily, throwing an arm over Nori’s shoulder.

Bilbo couldn't help the soft smile that pulled at his lips at the sight of them. “Nori, if I find you're stealing alcohol, I will have to punish you.”

“Oh,” Nori drawled, winking, “you gonna spank me?”

“ _Nori_ _,_ ” Bilbo laughed at the moment that Bofur exclaimed, “oi!” and yanked at one of Nori’s braids.

Shaking his head with a smile, Bilbo held up his trousers. “Fine, alright, I'm going,” he said, “now turn around.”

“It's nothing we haven't seen before,” Bofur grinned.

Feeling his face heat up a bit, Bilbo sent them a pointed look. “Come on then,” Nori said, taking Bofur by the arm and spinning him around. “He wants to preserve his princely virtue. What's left of it anyway.”

Without looking up from where he was buttoning up his shirt, Bilbo fumbled for a pillow and threw in the direction he remembered Nori’s head to be. He heard a distinct _‘oof,’_ followed by Nori’s voice grumbling, “uncalled for,” and felt a surge of victory.

Bilbo allowed them to turn around while he was pulling on his jacket. “Honestly,” he complained half-heartedly, “I don't know why I put up with you.”

Nori chuckled to himself, before he glanced to the door suddenly. Bilbo looked over to see what had caught his attention, and saw big blue eyes and long black curls masking a guilty expression. “Frodo,” he exclaimed. “what are you doing out of bed?”

Frodo slowly shuffled his way into the room, peering at Bofur and Nori curiously. “I-I was hungry and I went to get a snack from the kitchens. I heard you talking,” he said, wringing his hands. “Could... could I go?” he continued, tilting his head with a hopeful expression.

“Go...?” Bilbo repeated in confusion, before he followed Frodo’s gaze to the dwarrows. “Oh! Oh... well I don't...”

Bofur looked to Nori, who shrugged. “There's no reason why he couldn't,” Bofur assured, smiling down at Frodo with a wink.

Frodo’s smile in return was blinding, and when he turned back to Bilbo his eyes were wide and pleading. “Oh,” Bilbo groaned. “Alright, I suppose it's alright, then—”

Frodo beamed at him and briefly wrapped his arms around Bilbo's waist. “Thank you, Uncle Bilbo!” he grinned, and then he turned to Bofur raising his arms. “Could you carry me like you used to, Mister Bofur?”

“O’ course, your highness,” Bofur said, bowing exaggeratedly, the top of his hat nearly brushing the floor. He scooped a giggling Frodo into his arms and gently settled him on his shoulders.

Laughing, Frodo gripped the flaps of Bofur’s hat. “I'm no _your highness_ ,” Frodo repeated, making a face between his giggles.

“Well,” Bofur exclaimed, making a show of trying to look back at Frodo with little success, “are you a Baggins, or aren't ya?”

“I am,” Frodo replied seriously, puffing his chest out.

“Well then,” Nori began, lightly poking Frodo’s stomach, “you're of a special lot already,” he drawled, sending a sly glance Bilbo’s way.

“Flattery will get you literally nowhere,” Bilbo said, slipping past him and out the door. Turning back to face them, he placed his hands on his hips. “This had better be good.”

There were those disconcerting matching smiles again. Bilbo was very, very suspicious. “Oh, it will be,” Bofur assured with a grin.

Hm. Suspicious.

 

* * *

 

He wasn't coming. He’d figured it out, found offense somehow, and he wasn't coming. Mahal, this was a stupid idea.

Thorin was pacing, had been pacing for a good while, and Frerin had long since given up on telling him to calm down and had settled himself in a low hanging branch, loudly proclaiming he was “napping in order to escape the stupidity.”

Balin was right in sending Bofur and Nori after Bilbo, because if Bofur had been forced to wait he likely would have taken it upon himself to reduce their stash of ale, and who knew what Nori might’ve cooked up. But Thorin couldn't help but think he had overstepped, incredibly, and he was mentally preparing himself for Bilbo to be disappointed, or angry, or _worse_ , and really, where did he get off thinking he knew what might make Bilbo happy—

“Thorin,” came Ori’s voice, accompanied by a hand on his shoulder, stopping his pacing. “He’ll like it. Bilbo’ll like it. Just the fact that you even thought of it—he’ll like it. Trust me.”

Thorin took a deep breath and nodded, sending Ori a grateful smile. Dwalin chose that moment to stomp into the clearing, hefting a tankard on his shoulder. “Stopped fussing have you?” he asked, brushing past him, and Thorin glared at him.

“I'll take that tankard and shove it right up your hairy—” he growled after him, but he cut off when Dori frowned at him disapprovingly, moving past them.

“I don't think there was a way I could've ended that any more appropriately, was there?” he asked Ori, who was chuckling.

“Probably not, no. Though I'm sure Dori appreciates your restraint.”

“Takes a lot of restraint, with that one,” Thorin grumbled, nodding at Dwalin, who was sitting with Balin.

At Ori’s silence, he glanced over, raising his eyebrows when Ori’s face turned a light shade of pink. “Sorry...?”

“No, it's not, you didn't—” Ori squeaked, before heaving a sigh. “It's fine,” he said rather miserably.

Thorin glanced between him and Dwalin before realization dawned on him. “Oh. _Oh_.” Thorin stared at Dwalin, and smirked. “He's a very romantic drunk,” Thorin whispered to Ori, who glared at him.

“That's—I wasn't..." he stuttered, before sighing. "Thanks,” Ori said stiffly, and Thorin laughed.

Lapsing into silence, he surveyed the area they had prepared. It had been Frerin's idea, to set up in the Old Forest. They were deep enough in that the noise they might make wouldn't reach town. And really, he thought, looking it over, it wasn't much, was it? A couple of tankards of ale and some food from the kitchens (thank you, Rose) on a “borrowed” table, some instruments, and a decent fire in the center of it all.

It was the best they could do on short notice, and suddenly it looked very meager indeed. "Alright, we're almost there," he heard Bofur's voice announce unnecessarily loudly, and he swallowed hard.

The others perked up at the sound, and Frerin very nearly fell out of the tree when he jerked awake. "Quick, pour a drink, get the pastries," Dori hissed, leading to much shuffling and shushing.

"Sweet Yavanna, Bofur," Bilbo's voice sounded, irritated. "I'll go deaf with you around. Not to mention Frodo."

Frodo, Thorin thought distantly. Unexpected, but Bilbo was less likely to get angry with him in front of Frodo. Probably. "It's just through here," he heard Nori say, and Mahal, they were nearly in the clearing.

"What are you—stop pushing, Nori—" Bilbo said, finally stepping into view, and Thorin knew the moment he saw them, saw his eyes widen.

Some of them yelled "surprise!" where others exclaimed "happy birthday!" and truly, it was a bit of a mess, and Thorin cringed slightly.

"Happy birthday," he said softly, after the others, hoping the shock and confusion in Bilbo's eyes would give way to happiness. "Early birthday, that is."

Thorin saw Nori and Bofur, with Frodo, come out from the cover of the underbrush out of the corner of his eye, but his gaze was fixed on Bilbo

"What," Bilbo choked out, glancing around. "What is...?"

"You were worried about the party. Worried you wouldn't enjoy it," Thorin explained hesitantly. "So, we thought we might arrange a party of our own. One where you wouldn't have to wonder about people's intentions or motivations. Because we all—" he stopped, swallowed, and continued, "care about you."

Bilbo stared at him eyes wide, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, and, _Mahal,_ his eyes were getting watery and Thorin panicked. "Oh, don't—don't cry, please, just, I didn't mean to make you upset—" he stuttered out, but suddenly Bilbo was in his arms, clutching at him tightly, and Thorin was very confused.

"I...?" he tried, and he felt Bilbo shake against him in what he realized was _laughter._

"Silly dwarf," Bilbo whispered, soft enough that only Thorin could hear, looking up at him with a blinding smile, and Thorin felt that warmth in his chest spread like wildfire. "You didn't have to do all this for me," Bilbo murmured, still looking at him like he didn't quite think Thorin was real, and that was enough to make Thorin smile incredulously.

"Yes, I did."

Bilbo's smile became softer at that, and he opened his mouth to say something when—

"Boo!" Frerin called, and a twig glanced off of Thorin's head. "Get a room!"

Bilbo blinked at Thorin’s suddenly murderous expression, laughing outright when Thorin muttered darkly, “I'll get your corpse a room.”

Bilbo pulled away, thanked everyone else, but still periodically sent Thorin that small smile, one that was somehow different than the ones he gave the others. That light warmth inside practically surged every time Bilbo looked his way, and he thought he could live in that feeling, a kind of happiness he never even knew existed. He could only describe it as _right,_ a missing part of him briefly slotting into place whenever he was with him. For once, he didn't feel _broken,_ and he could only revel in the feeling, hoping he wouldn't be left without it now that he knew what it was, what it meant.

 

* * *

 

“Submit.”

“No.”

“Surrender!”

“Death first!” Bilbo exclaimed, the ridiculous statement echoed by cheers of those surrounding the table and, staring Thorin down, Bilbo downed another pint of ale, noticeably faster than the last.

Thorin stared fuzzily at him, vaguely wondering where it all went. Hobbits were so... tiny. Dwalin pushed another pint in front of him. "I put my money on you," Dwalin rumbled, sticking a finger in his face. "So drink up."

Thorin groaned loudly, letting his head clunk on the table. "How."

"With yer _mouth_ you daft—"

Lolling his head to one side, Thorin grabbed at Dwalin's shirt and pulled him down, silencing him. "Ori's been over there with... with Bifur a long time now," he said. "Bifur's had an eye on him for a _while_ ," Thorin told him, very nearly bursting out laughing at the thought, but managing to maintain his serious expression. Not that it would have mattered—Dwalin's attention was already thoroughly diverted.

"Given up yourself, have you?" Bilbo drawled from across the table, words only slightly slurred.

Thorin turned to him and shushed him, patting the top of Dwalin's head as he did so, ignoring the growl it wrought. "I have _not_. We're just having a very important conversation. Right, Dwalin?" Thorin turned to him, or rather where he had been, only to see Dwalin stalking away from him and to Ori and Bifur around the fire. "Dwalin!"

Ah, well. There went his last chance at stalling.

"Drink or lose, Oakenshield," Bilbo grinned, and oh, how Thorin envied hobbit metabolisms.

He eyed the drink in front him warily, then narrowed his eyes at Bilbo’s smug expression. “You are ruthless, Bilbo Baggins.”

“Is that a formal declaration of defeat?”

Thorin was about to object, but suddenly felt like he was going to be sick for about the third time. “Yes, yes, you've won, congrat—congratul—” Thorin sighed. “Good job. Enjoy the boost to your ego,” he said, snorting at the hooting from Bofur and Frodo as the others grudgingly tossed their winnings at them.

“Don't tell me Thorin Oakenshield, the noble dwarven warrior, is a sore loser,” Bilbo asked brightly, suddenly sitting next to him, and Thorin eyed him suspiciously.

“I don't understand,” Thorin mumbled, pressing his pounding forehead against the wood of the table, and it almost sounded like whining. “You're such a tiny person.”

There was that smile again. “Accurate, if a bit politically incorrect,” Bilbo mused, and his cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright, and he looked _happy._ And Thorin knew he must've been grinning like an idiot but he didn't care.

"Ugh," he groaned when another wave of nausea hit him. "What have you done to me?" he asked, laughing breathlessly.

Bilbo rubbed his back sympathetically, and reminded him softly, "let's not forget who challenged who."

Thorin turned his head slightly and squinted at him. Bilbo's expression was soft and fond and—

Thorin didn't want to hope, but he couldn't help it. “I don't understand you,” Thorin heard himself say again, and at this point he wasn't entirely sure what might come out of his mouth. “I really, really don't, but I want to. I want to know how to make you happy, like this, all the time.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened at that, and Thorin very nearly regretted saying what he did, but anything Bilbo might've said in response was overshadowed by Bofur beginning a tune on his pipe. Thorin glanced over when a few others joined in, Bifur with what looked and sounded like a fiddle, and Frodo enthusiastically beating at an empty tankard like a drum.

"Would you dance with me?"

Thorin turned his head to gape at Bilbo. "What?"

Bilbo looked him up and down, then declared, "you seem drunk enough," and proceeded to grab his hand and pull him up.

"I can't dance," Thorin told him, but he allowed himself to be hauled up all the same.

"Well, neither can I," Bilbo informed him with a laugh. "Let's fail at it together."

 

* * *

 

There was a lot of awkward shuffling at first, and some catcalls from Dwalin and Frerin, but eventually they moved along with the music with some degree of success. Frerin was the next to brave dancing, and he pulled up a very resistant Dori to be his partner.

Soon they were spinning in time with the music, he and Bilbo laughing whenever they missed a step, and they had nearly collided with the others dancing about a hundred times, and it was the most fun he'd had in years.

He even saw Dwalin dancing with Ori, and when he caught the sight out of the corner of his eye he yelled something like unintelligible encouragement at them over the music, but Ori must have heard him because he ducked his head, face red. Thorin would have felt bad, but there had been a shy smile on Ori's face.

And Dwalin's disgruntled glare had been a treasure in itself.

Bilbo didn't question it, merely laughing when Thorin did so, but knowing Bilbo he likely already knew about Ori and Dwalin's dancing around each other, pun intended.

With a crescendo, the song ended, and left Thorin and Bilbo panting, breathless and grinning, pressed against each other. Bilbo's cheeks were a flushed pink, and he laughed between gasps of air, his face so close Thorin could pick out the individual colors in his eyes, and he was the most beautiful thing Thorin had ever seen.

Bilbo's gaze turned softer at the edges and his mouth parted slightly, and Thorin stopped breathing for a moment. Then, the silence was broken by applause and whistles, and Thorin exhaled.

He pulled away first, stepping back and bowing slightly, looking up at Bilbo with a smile. "Thank you for the dance, your highness," he murmured cheekily, trying to calm his pounding heart.

Bilbo blinked, before breaking out into a blinding grin. "My pleasure," he chuckled. Then, softly, "my silly dwarf."

Thorin swallowed. He could tell him. Tell him here, now. He was surrounded by friends. But if Bilbo—if he didn't—

He would ruin _this._

"Dwarrow," he smirked instead, reveling in the way Bilbo tried to appear affronted even while smiling.

"That's not even _right_ at _all._ "

"Beg to differ."

Thorin thought Bilbo's laugh sounded a bit like music itself.


	12. All That's Black and White

 

 _"Have you... ever wondered why your archi—architec—_ houses _are so... round?" Thorin murmured, stumbling through the hall, craning his neck to look up at the ceiling._

_"You are very drunk," Bilbo chuckled, arm wrapped around his in what he claimed was assurance that Thorin would not "keel over and kill himself." Which was ridiculous. But Thorin wasn't complaining._

_"No, really. It's not—" A hiccup. "Not natural."_

_A laugh. A fond look. "Let's get you in bed before you fall down."_

_Thorin tumbled into the bed with little finesse, catching Bilbo’s hand before he could straighten. "Would you stay?"_

_"Thorin—"_

_"Stay here, with me, just—" A yawn. "Just stay. I could stay. If you wanted. If you'd let me."_

_A silence. "Thorin..."_

He didn't remeber the rest.

 

* * *

 

He woke to a hand touching his forehead, disoriented, unsure of where he was, and instinct had him jolting into action. He jerked upright in an instant, only to clutch at his head and fall back, moaning. It felt like an oliphaunt had tromped on his skull and shat on it for good measure. " _Khulm caragu,_ " he hissed, gritting his teeth.

"Here, drink this. You'll feel better," he heard and he opened one eye to see Bilbo, concern on his face and fingers tapping against a mug.

He stared at the thing with trepidation. "What is it?"

"Call it a restorative beverage. Best not to ask what's in it," Bilbo answered with a sympathetic expression. "Though, I promise, it'll make you feel less like... whatever it was you just said."

Thorin couldn't help but laugh, regretting it slightly when it sent his head spinning again. "Elf shit," he translated, chuckling when Bilbo sighed, long suffering.

"I don't understand this animosity between elves and dwarrows," he clucked, handing the mug to Thorin.

"Ridiculous flowy creatures," Thorin mumbled, taking a sip. He made a face when the taste hit him, something bitter and slightly syrupy. Bracing himself, he downed the rest, managing to swallow with difficulty. "Ugh," he coughed. " _Poison_."

"So dramatic."

"I'll never drink again," Thorin groaned.

"I'm sure," Bilbo replied, smiling.

Thorin squinted at him. "I see you're perfectly fine,” he accused, and Bilbo shrugged in response.

“Hobbit,” he reminded him unapologetically. “Anyway, I've told Balin you'll be a bit... indisposed today.”

Thorin stared at him, then settled back against the headboard, huffing a laugh. “He’ll never let me live it down,” he said. “It's strange, not having the pressing duties I used to. In Erebor, no matter how affected Dwalin and I were after a night out, we were always expected to be present for the rotation of the guard.”

Bilbo smiled, but there was a curious tightness to it. “Have you received any news? From Erebor, that is?” he asked before Thorin could work out his reaction.

“I've received letters,” Thorin told him, “from Dís. She and my nephews are well. Though she chastised me for her having to write first,” he recalled, chuckling.

Bilbo’s expression flickered at that, revealing something that looked like pain, but disappeared before Thorin was even certain he’d seen the change. “You must miss them.”

“I do,” he answered slowly, studying his face. “But it's not as if I've never travelled before.”

Bilbo's smile definitely looked forced at at that. "Bilbo, are you alright?" Thorin asked, watching Bilbo's fingers still against the empty cup.

"Fine," Bilbo said, trying at that smile again, and if Thorin hadn't been watching him very closely he would have been convinced. "I'll go get you some tea," he said, turning as he spoke, pace a bit too fast to be entirely casual, "help wash the taste down."

Thorin stared at him as he left, trying to determine what, exactly, had gone wrong. Maybe he was imagining things.

 

* * *

 

It felt as though Thorin had barely closed his eyes for a moment when he heard an almost ominous knock on his door. Merely, one, loud, reverberating knock, and he rolled his eyes, wondering if it was Bilbo and, if so, when he had developed such a dramatic flair. He opened his mouth, grimacing when he registered the vile taste in the back of his throat—he had thought it was bad when he had first awoken and his head had felt as muggy and as thick as shit, but whatever was in that “restorative beverage,” unfortunately, tasted suspiciously of the substance —and he managed to croak out a low, “enter.”

The person who opened the door was certainly not Bilbo. In fact, he was almost everything Bilbo was not. A man, for one, wearing an obnoxious hat. Tall, bearded, eyes smiling knowingly in a way that Thorin didn't like.

“And you are?” he intoned dryly after the newcomer said nothing. Not one for manners, was he? Thorin briefly scanned him up and down, determining he was certainly not a threat. He did seem surprisingly spry for his age, though.

“Forgive me,” the stranger said, still looking amused, “but I happened to run into an old friend, and he told me I might find Bilbo Baggins in this room?”

Thorin narrowed his eyes. The old man hadn't even bothered to introduce himself after Thorin _asked,_ and he expected him to freely tell him where Bilbo was? “Do I look like a hobbit to you?”

“Now, Thorin, there’s no need for that,” the stranger chided, either oblivious or uncaring at the way Thorin tensed when he uttered his name so casually.

“I see you have me at a disadvantage,” Thorin muttered, glaring now. “You know my name, and yet I still do not know yours.”

The old man’s eyes practically twinkled at that. “I go by many names. Which would you prefer?” he asked cheerfully.

Thorin was growing very tired of this unexpected visitor, and he could feel his head beginning to pound again. “I don't know who you _think_ you are—frankly, I don't care—but as you can see, Bilbo isn't here.”

“Bilbo,” the stranger repeated, an eyebrow raised. “That seems rather familiar for someone who claims ignorance of him. While we are on the subject of names,” he continued innocently, “I was quite certain Bilbo had a title.”

That was it. “Oh,” Thorin said, voice low, “he does have a title, and last I heard, you didn't use it. Nor,” he growled, “did you use mine. Since the subject of your search is so obviously absent, I'll let you see yourself out."

"Gandalf?!" came Bilbo's voice, slightly choked.

"Ah, Bilbo, my boy," the man—wizard?—said, turning around and allowing Thorin a brief glimpse of Bilbo in the doorway, mouth agape. "I was just speaking with Thorin, here, about where you had gone off to."

"Why...?" Bilbo began, before blurting out, "you're—you're here? I—" He paused. " _Fell omens,_ Gandalf?" he said, and Thorin frowned, no idea what Bilbo was talking about.

“Is everything alright?” Thorin asked him, and Bilbo looked around Gandalf (really, was _he_ the wizard? Thorin had heard wizards spoke in riddles but he'd never imagined it could be so _irritating_ ), with an apologetic expression.

"Yes, it's—it's fine, just, I'm sorry he barged in on you like this, he does have a habit of that—"

“I'm sorry, but is this Gandalf the Grey? The wizard?” Thorin asked incredulously.

“What? Yes, he is,” Bilbo answered, distractedly. “Gandalf, if I could speak to you outside?”

“But I was only just becoming acquainted with your dwarf,” Gandalf said, and turning to Thorin he asked, “is that not correct?”

Thorin stared at him. “Is there some sort of formal requirement for becoming a wizard,” he deadpanned, “that includes answering questions with questions and never giving straight answers? Is that all it takes?”

The wizard only raised an eyebrow in reply. Turning slightly to face Bilbo, he said, “I see why you like him, Bilbo. He certainly has a sharp tongue.”

“ _Outside_ ,” Bilbo repeated, face red.

After he ushered him out, an innocent expression on the wizard’s face, Bilbo came to his bedside and placed another cup on the dresser. “Should still be hot,” he muttered, and turning to Thorin, he ordered, “drink that.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “It's green tea, Thorin,” Bilbo assured him, “and tastes much better than the other, I promise. And I promise you'll _feel_ better when you have it in your system.” When Thorin eventually agreed that, yes, alright he’d drink it, Bilbo nodded, casting a glance at the doorway, fingers tapping against the bed frame. “I... I’ll be right back,” he said, drifting to the door, feet soundless against the floor. He looked worried, but not outright, like he was trying to hide it, but it shone through in the nervous motions of his hands and the distance in his speech. What he was concerned about however, Thorin didn't know.

 

* * *

 

 

“Really, Gandalf?” Bilbo hissed as soon as he'd shut the door behind him. “You couldn't have just waited to be received, formally, in the parlor?”

Gandalf harrumphed at that. “Why would I? I met Bofur when I arrived and he delightedly informed me where I might find you.”

Bilbo sighed. “Course he did,” he muttered. Then, looking up at Gandalf he accused, “you know, I would be happy to see you, Gandalf, but as of now I'm very cross with you.”

"Well, I don't know why," Gandalf huffed, actually looking affronted. "I've been nothing but civil—"

"Fell omens, Gandalf?" Bilbo asked again, and Gandalf had the good sense to go quiet. "I know you've made it a mission to always be as cryptic as possible, but the only word I've had from you in three years was a letter, not even addressed to me, about _fell omens from the west._ Could you possibly explain what in the bloody hell that means?”

Gandalf stared at him, that tired, knowing stare that spoke volumes, that he knew more than Bilbo ever would and still wouldn't tell Bilbo enough. “I have recently concerned myself with the safety of the Shire.”

Bilbo’s blood ran cold. “What? _Why?_ ” he demanded, searching Gandalf’s face with wide eyes. “What's going on?”

“Bilbo, there is no pressing danger,” Gandalf began, “I merely suggest an air of caution.”

“I'd like to know what prompted this,” Bilbo asked, unrelenting, after taking a deep breath.

Gandalf sighed and suddenly looked weary. “I have seen signs of great change in recent months. A darkness spreads over the land, from Dol Guldor. A good friend of mine, Radagast the Brown, tells me it has begun to taint the Greenwood.”

“What kind of darkness?” Bilbo asked hesitantly, swallowing as his mind raced. The Greenwood was not far from the Shire at all, merely a journey of day or two.

“I am not certain,” Gandalf replied slowly, gaze distant. “It is a kind of quiet menace, affecting wildlife, weather, the likes of which I have not seen... at least...” He looked at Bilbo then. “Has anything changed, Bilbo? In the Shire, has anything happened, anything of note?”

Bilbo’s skin prickled, and his eyes unwillingly drifted to the wood of his door. “I...” he tried, feeling his throat constrict. “Nothing of consequence.”

Gandalf stared at him, a heavy, narrow gaze. “Well,” he said eventually, “if anything strange should transpire at the very least I will be here.”

“You're staying?” Bilbo asked, flustered.

“Of course, my boy,” Gandalf exclaimed, huffing. “I would never pass up an opportunity for happier tidings. It is your birthday, is it not?”

“Well, yes but it's... it's not like it's that important—I've had _several—"_

Gandalf gave him a stern look. Bilbo sighed, crossing his arms. “Just... promise me you'll behave? I hope you don't take offense, Gandalf, but it when you appear, it always seems as though curious things follow.”

“A common misconception,” Gandalf said. Bilbo couldn't quite pinpoint the look in his eyes when he continued, “Curious things do not find me, but rather, I am drawn to them. Bilbo...” he stopped, stared at nothing in particular, then, “are you certain there is nothing different here?”

Bilbo swallowed. He could tell him, tell him what glinted from the corner of his room, because he knew it was something _wrong,_ but the words quite literally caught in his throat, that strange panic rising up and strangling them. “Apart from the acquisition of several dwarrows and one meddlesome wizard, no. I don't know what you mean.” The words tasted sour in his mouth, and they rang with a kind of false cheer, but—

If he told Gandalf, he would _take it,_ and that fear was the one that stuck.

“I see,” Gandalf murmured after a moment. “I am glad of it, then. The Shire has always had rather a knack for resilience and reliability,” he said with a smile. “I admit, I was concerned on my travels, that the Shire might somehow be affected by what I've seen. Happily, it remains the same, and I should never have doubted it.”

It was just a ring. He was being ridiculous, paranoid and silly. Just a ring.

One that could render him invisible, and conjured strange, sinister voices.

Oh.

“Gandalf, I—” he began, but he felt his muscles freeze and his throat constrict.

 **_No_ ** _._

“What is it, my boy?”

Bilbo blinked, breathing in. “I... I don't quite... Nothing, I—nothing, just,” he looked up at the wizard. “Have you spoken with my father yet? I mean, has he arranged a room for you yet?”

“I _have_ spoken with him, and I'm glad to report, not nearly as heatedly as the last instance we met. Though I have not discussed matters of a room—”

“I can set one up for you,” Bilbo interrupted, not quite certain why he felt like he needed to leave the hallway. “It'll be this way.”

Bilbo walked with him, asking him of his journey, all the while pestered by the strange, nagging feeling that he'd forgotten something rather important.

 

* * *

 

"Mister Thorin!"

Thorin opened his eyes to see another pair of wide, watery, blue ones staring back at him. If the reaction hadn't been trained out of him long ago, he would have startled badly—he registered Frodo's face peering above his own, and if he had moved the slightest inch upwards he might've knocked their heads together.

In the next moment, he registered that Frodo was crying.

"Frodo? What is it?" he asked, taking hold of the boy's hand, shaking against the covers of the bed.

"I... I'm sorry, Mister Thorin," Frodo sniffed, "I... I didn't want to wake you b-but I... I couldn't—I didn't know who else t-to—"

"Frodo, it's alright," Thorin tried for reassuring. "It's alright, you can come to me whenever you need to. Now, what's wrong?"

Frodo swallowed, eyes wide. "It's... It's Uncle Bilbo..."

Thorin froze. "What happened? Where is he?" he asked, trying to hide the frantic note to his own voice, now.

"He... He's outside, I—I told him to come inside, but he won't..." Frodo sobbed. "He won't listen to me, he just... He just keeps _staring_ and what if—" Frodo's voice choked off. "What if he doesn't come back? What if he gets sick like my Ma and Da?"

Thorin stared, confused, but he stood up and placed his hands on Frodo's shoulders, saying, "don't worry. You can show me where he is, and we'll bring him inside. Alright?"

"O-okay," Frodo hiccuped. "He's outside near the tomato gardens. Please, we need to hurry," he said, taking hold of Thorin's hand and leading him out the door.

Frodo's pace was agitated and he almost slipped twice against the wood floor, but he pressed on, sending worried glances back at Thorin as if he was afraid Thorin would disappear. His behavior was disconcerting, and Thorin felt anxious all the more for it. What did Frodo mean 'he wouldn't come inside?'

They came to the great wooden door that announced the entrance to Bag End, and burst through it. Thorin came to a stop while Frodo tried to pull him forward, staring in disbelief and shock.

Snow.

It was _snowing_ , wind whipping across his cheeks like blades of ice, the sky gone dark with heavy clouds, when just a day ago the sun had been warm and gentle and constant. "Mister Thorin!" Frodo called over the rush of the wind, pulling at his arm, bottom lip trembling.

Thorin started to move again, at a quicker pace, mind whirring. Already he could feel the chill creeping underneath his skin, the wind pricking his face like knives. He knew, now, why Frodo was worried about Bilbo.

They rounded Bag End's edges, and Thorin remembered when, outwardly, Bag End had seemed small, but now it seemed enormous, spanning entirely too much and slowing him down. "Bilbo!" he called when he finally came into view, staring up into the sky.

He was only wearing a thin tunic and pants, barefoot as always, and _Mahal,_ he must've been freezing, but he didn't even seem to notice. Bilbo did turn at Thorin's voice, which brought only a small measure of relief. Thorin immediately removed the coat he was wearing and draped it over Bilbo's shoulders, kneeling in front of him to make sure to wrapped all the way around. "Thorin," Bilbo said, his voice thin. "Thorin, it... It's snowing, it's not... It's not supposed to snow, it's—" Thorin heard Bilbo swallow. "It's _September._ "

Thorin stood up, wrapping his arms around him, trying to get some warmth into him—he looked too pale for comfort. "We need to get you inside," Thorin murmured, casting a glance up at the sinister color of the clouds, before leading Bilbo back the way they came.

Frodo followed, anxiously peering around Thorin to look at Bilbo, biting his lip. "We're not ready, Thorin," Bilbo kept saying, shivering against him. "It's too early."

Thorin breathed a sigh of relief when they finally reached the entrance, pushing it open and feeling the warmth from inside leech outward like a welcoming embrace. He sat Bilbo down in one of the armchairs in the adjacent room, and turned to Frodo. "Could you get some blankets?" he asked, and Frodo nodded fervently, sending Bilbo one more wide eyed look before scurrying off.

"It affects the weather," Bilbo mumbled.

Thorin turned and crouched down in front of him. "What?"

"Gandalf said it affected the weather," Bilbo said again, breath uneven.

"Bilbo, what affects the weather? What is it?" Thorin's hand found Bilbo's and he clutched at it tightly. "What's wrong?" Thorin asked, searching Bilbo's face for something, anything.

"I—it's happening again," Bilbo croaked. "The Fell Winter, it—it's too early, it must be—"

"Bilbo, look at me," Thorin said, and he waited until Bilbo's gaze focused on him to continue, "the Fell Winter happened during a bad bout of famine that affected even the Shire. But the Shire has been prosperous since then, hasn't it?"

"Y-yes..."

"So, even if this year's winter is long, you are not unprepared for it. I saw you made sure of that, when you spent your nights in the library going over and over the store-keeping books. It'll be okay. Alright?"

"Okay. Okay," Bilbo said, eyes still too wide, but Thorin was certain he was calming down. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay," Thorin said, mouth pulling up at the corners as he tried to contain a smile, and Bilbo huffed a tired laugh.

"I'm... I'm sorry I caused you so much trouble..." Bilbo mumbled after a moment.

"It wasn't—you are not _trouble_ ," Thorin replied immediately. Then, "but I'll admit I was... worried."

Bilbo hunched down farther in the chair. "Sorry, it—it was stupid, I was overreacting."

"Your concerns are not stupid," Thorin told him again. "They are important because you are important."

Bilbo stared at him, mouth opening and closing, then swallowed and leaned forward, and Thorin's breath hitched in his throat. Bilbo pressed his forehead against Thorin's, and Thorin could feel Bilbo's breath against his lips. He wanted to reach out and taste, but it wasn't the right time—he could feel Bilbo still shaking, hints aftershock and adrenaline, and it would be wrong to take from him like this, when his eyes were red-rimmed and his fingers trembling. Thorin contented himself with just the simple touch, eyes fluttering shut, that fire in his chest raging when Bilbo murmured, "I don't know what I'd do without you."

He let himself believe that Bilbo could feel the heat of the bond, that it might warm him in a way that blankets couldn't.

Bilbo smelled soft, like grass and honey, and it reminded Thorin of _home._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited-PLOT IS COMING WOOOOO  
> Also, I've changed the circumstances of the deaths of Frodo's parents. In canon, they die of drowning, but here they were victims of the Fell Winter, hence his reaction to Bilbo. Just in case you were confused ;)


	13. That Light I Used to Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little mini-chapter for y'all in which many things happen.  
> Btw, you guys are gonna want to check the translations in the end notes. *wink wink*

 

_“Thorin...” Bilbo said, breath still cold against Thorin’s lips. “I just... I can't help but feel like something... something’s coming.”_

_Thorin opened his eyes to find Bilbo’s, clenched shut, brows drawn together. “Do not worry. I'll be here.”_

_By your side._

_He felt Bilbo nod, felt the shaky exhale and saw the crooked smile. “I know.”_

_Thorin brought a hand up to cup Bilbo’s cheek, drawing his index finger through the thin strands of Bilbo’s hair, brushing the tip of his ear. Bilbo shuddered, opening his eyes, pupils wide and dark, and Thorin_ wanted, _very nearly forgetting what he had told himself moments before. Then, the sound of Frodo’s small feet padding back into the room registered and, breathing in one last time, he pulled away._

 

* * *

 

The snow eventually stopped when the sun dawned over the hills, drawing relief from Bilbo, and from Thorin. A part of him still worried, however, that Bilbo’s fears had been well-founded. Even if the snowfall did not mean a harsh winter like the one of few years past, it was too early in the year for such things to be normal. Bilbo’s shaky words from the evening before came back to him then. _“It affects the weather.”_

What had he meant?

Shaking his head, Thorin glanced at Bilbo from the corner of his eye, where he stood, attentive, gaze focused on the spectacle before them. It had been, in truth, merely a few hours since that instance in the snow, but in that short period the hobbits of the Shire had come close to panic. It had seemed that the fear of another, perhaps crueler, winter had invaded the minds of everyone as the sky had filled with a flurry of white and the air imbued with an icy chill. King Bungo had been quick to a public announcement, that morning calling for an audience of all who had been disquieted by the previous night's events. Thorin watched on from the sides, he and all the other dwarrows present at the King’s request—he felt somehow a part of it and a spectator all at once.

As the crowd slowly quieted as King Bungo stepped forward, Thorin occasionally heard heated whispers from a group of females in the corner, one in particular standing out from the rest. The way she sneered had a peculiar coldness to it, her mouth twisting as she spoke. Granted, Thorin was nearest to the crowd and had more cause to hear them than the rest, but it felt as though she almost wanted him to hear, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “I'm sure something of this strangeness is because of those filthy dwarves, I'll tell you that,” she hissed to those around her, and Thorin stiffened, jaw clenched.

King Bungo had begun to address the crowd, but Thorin could hear none of it, his mind now only processing what was being said in the outskirts, and, he noted with irritation, that some of the hobbits who had overheard seemed to agree, multiple heads nodding to the woman’s words. “I've heard things, you know,” she continued, eyes narrowed, “about them. Peculiar folk— _especially_ these ones. Something about a line of Durin. Bad luck follows them like a cloud—some of the Rangers were speaking of it in Bree. It's said that one of the Durins—their own King—went _mad_.”

Thorin’s jaw felt numb, he had held it taut for so long, and he swallowed, the taste of ash never leaving the back of his throat. Though he wasn't looking at them directly, he could feel the horrid judgement from their eyes, drifting over him and his companions, and suddenly he felt that contempt that he had not felt since the day he arrived well up and simmer in his stomach.

There were some muted cries of disbelief and unease, to which the woman replied, “who's to say the snow wasn't because of them? Bad things happen when dwarves show up here—you all remember."

Thorin had no idea what she was alluding to, but those around her seemed to, shuffling with uneasy expressions on their faces. "But, Lobelia—" a young hobbit lass piped up, but the woman—Lobelia, it seemed—interrupted, "I've no clue what might have convinced King Bungo to play host to such... uncivilized creatures again," she said, and Thorin's hands clenched. Shifting his head slightly, away from them, he caught Bilbo staring at them, frowning.

Of course Bilbo had overheard. Thorin felt a flush of shame and he _hated_ it, but the fact was that some of what she said, of his grandfather, was true. There were even those in Erebor who still whispered of the curse on the Durin line, even while his father worked tirelessly, thanklessly, to ensure the kingdom remained strong and prosperous and intact, especially after the disaster that was Khazad-dum, which drained them of funds and able bodied dwarrows alike. Bilbo was looking at him now, but his expression was too close to pity for comfort, so Thorin stared out at nothing, trying to ease the rigidity in his muscles, but failing. He didn't need pity, didn't want anything to do with it.

"Perhaps the madness of dwarves is contagious," that damned Lobelia's voice reached his ears again, but there was something strange in her tone, something very directly _accusing_ that Thorin didn't understand. "It seems to have gone around." She wasn't looking at him then, but her steely brown gaze was directed past him. At Bilbo, he realized, and he glanced over to find Bilbo's eyes hard, mouth a tight line. Almost immediately, Thorin was hit with a surge of resentment for her, and reached out a hand to brush Bilbo's. To anyone who many have seen the action it might have seemed like an accidental touch. Bilbo's throat worked and he glanced at him, eyes curiously shiny, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Bungo's voice drew his gaze away, though he noted, Bilbo had inched slightly closer to him. "Let us not be daunted by the fickle nature of the weather,” the King was saying, “but rather continue as we have. We are not as ill prepared as we where many years ago for strife. Even in the unlikely event that something unexpected should happen, we are well-equipped and well-off—all of us. Let us enjoy this month’s harvest without worry of future, because there is nothing that should worry us.”

Those in the square clapped at that, an audible murmur of agreement. Thorin clapped as well, an expression of politeness if nothing else, but cast his gaze to his left when he saw a flash of movement from the back of the crowd. It was the wizard, who, despite his appearance, was very good at making himself inconspicuous—Thorin had barely caught a glance of him before he had disappeared again. It was his expression, however, that stuck in Thorin’s mind. He had never known it in a wizard’s nature to appear _worried._

It wasn't a particularly comforting revelation.

 

* * *

 

The snow returned, three days after it had first appeared, clouds ominous and forming with a ready, terrifying speed. Then, it was gone. Three days later, it came again, like clockwork. Thorin knew he was not the only one who thought he saw a pattern, who felt the dread in his bones. But there was no more widespread panic. Only a quiet fear, present and thick as smoke, gazes darting up to the sky anxiously. Somehow it was worse.

The words from his dream often came to mind despite his attempts to push them away, lingering like dark clouds. 

_"Death comes in threes."_

 

* * *

 

Fifteen Years Ago

_“You lose,” Thorin declared with a smirk, setting his cards down on the table._

_Frerin groaned and threw his hands up, declaring him a "bloody cheater," scooting back his chair and heading off to get another round of ale._

_Dwalin stayed quiet, staring at the cards on the table, putting his own down. "I'd rather not win like that," Dwalin muttered, nodding at Thorin's cards, and Thorin scowled at him. The hand was rare, all four of his cards reflecting the same number._

_"I didn't cheat," Thorin protested, glaring at Dwalin._

_Dwalin shook his head, an amused half-smile on his face. "Didn't say you did, did I?"_

_Thorin frowned at him. "Then, what?"_

_"Bad luck that," Dwalin said, taking a swig of what was left in his cup. When Thorin quirked an eyebrow at him questioningly, he clarified, "four threes. Bad luck in threes. Your Ma never tell you that?"_

_Thorin rolled his eyes. "I don't believe in superstitions, Dwalin. No point putting stock in ghost stories and evil spirits.” Dwalin’s expression remained serious, and Thorin frowned at him. “Are you telling me, even if there was money on the table, you wouldn't want to win with a hand of threes?"_

_“Depends.”_

_“On what?”_

_“How much we’re talkin’ about,” Dwalin smirked._

_Thorin huffed, leaning back in his seat. “More than I pay you in a year.”_

_“Not nearly enough. You're pretty stingy, actually.”_

_“Consider your pay downgraded,” Thorin replied without missing a beat._

_Dwalin merely chuckled in response, murmuring something that sounded like “high and mighty,” as he twisted in his chair to receive the ale Frerin had brought._

_Thorin glanced at his cards while his companions were distracted, the numbers glaring up at him._

_He turned them over._

 

* * *

"Check," Thorin said, moving his piece.

Bilbo stared at the board, then at Thorin, then back at the board again. "You're bloody good at this," he said, not irritated but, rather, impressed.

Thorin shrugged, aiming for nonchalance but secretly pleased. "It's merely strategy."

Bilbo grinned and picked up a rook, setting it down with a self-satisfied air. Thorin raised an eyebrow, studying the board. “That was a terrible decision.”

Bilbo looked down at the board again, eyeing longer this time, before grimacing. “Ah. Yes,” he nodded, then leaned back. “Quite right. I meant to do that.”

“You meant to lose?” Thorin asked, amused.

“I haven't lost yet,” Bilbo corrected. “See, I have this terrible habit of not thinking things through,” he continued, smiling, “but usually I manage to find a kind of... alternate solution, if you catch my meaning.”

Thorin stared at him, perplexed by his growing grin. “What are you waiting for?” Bilbo asked, head tilted in mock innocence, gesturing to the board. “It's your turn.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, Thorin turned back to the game, making to move his king and end it, only to find that the piece was not in the space he'd left it. Thorin snapped his head up to look back at Bilbo, mouth opening slightly in surprise when he saw the piece being twirled between Bilbo’s fingers. “Checkmate,” Bilbo grinned, winking.

“How—when did you—” Thorin began, sighing when Bilbo began to laugh. “ _Hobbits,_ ” he grumbled.

"See? I win," Bilbo said unashamedly.

Thorin stared at him. "How, exactly?"

Bilbo shook the piece in his hand. "I captured your king. All the points to me," he declared, taking a half-bow in his seat.

"That doesn't make sense," Thorin told him, though the smile pulling at his mouth made the reproach in his words flimsy at best.

"I beg to differ,” Bilbo beamed, using Thorin’s words from a few nights ago.

"Well, now that you have 'captured my king,' as you say, what do you intend to do with it?" Thorin asked.

Bilbo considered it, turning the thing around in his hands. "I think I'll keep it."

"And, in so doing, prevent the game from being played in the future?" Thorin pointed out.

Bilbo gave him a look of mock-exasperation. "I am the only winner, Thorin," he said seriously, mouth twitching.

"Oh, of course, forgive me, your highness," Thorin smirked, chuckling when Bilbo shot him a look and mimed throwing the piece at him.

"If anyone is the pompous prince, it's you," Bilbo said, sniffing.

"Perhaps, once," Thorin smiled, "but it seems you've rather grown into that big head of yours—"

"Hey!"

Thorin laughed at Bilbo's taken aback expression, which quickly devolved into giggles. "You prat," Bilbo said, once he'd caught his breath.

"Bundushathûr," Thorin shot back.

Bilbo tilted his head, then said, "you know, even if that was an insult, I won't take offense. It sounded rather pretty."

Thorin bristled. "Khuzdul is not _pretty._ Flowery, fanciful languages are for elves."

"You quite sure about that?"

"Elvish leaves much to be desired," Thorin asserted, crossing his arms.

Bilbo smiled at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Gi melin," he said softly, then he swallowed and looked down, fiddling with the piece in his hands.

Thorin squinted at him, taking in the change in Bilbo's demeanor. "Too vulgar to translate?" Thorin joked, trying to meet Bilbo's eyes. "I had no idea elves were so bold."

Bilbo snorted, looking up at him, that small smile back on his lips. "Something like that."

Thorin eyes him curiously, but seeing Bilbo's fingers twitching and his gaze wavering, he didn't press. He had been trying, today especially, to make Bilbo smile, and he wasn't ready to give that up. Outside held an encroaching ominous air, but inside, in the library where they sat in the quiet hours of the late evening, there was only the two of them.

And Thorin wasn't ready to give that up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean chess doesn't exist in Middle Earth?? Pfffft.  
> **  
> Translations:
> 
> Bundushathûr- Khuzdul for "cloudy-head" (weak insult, Thorin)
> 
> Gi melin- Elvish for "I love you"


	14. The Black Knight

_The sky was always dark. A void, all consuming, drawing his attention even as he fought, even as he struggled against the faceless onslaught._

_But the sky wasn't what was important._

_He fought for a purpose now, he knew,_ knew, _that there was one. Not like before—these moments were never like they were before, because before he was certain that events could not be changed, but now it was important that he succeeded, important he fought and pushed them back because—_

_Because?_

_There was something, someone he was protecting._

_He faltered, a brief misstep, his faceless adversary nearly taking his head off because of it, but Thorin quickly recovered. He was protecting_ him, _but why was he here, he wasn't supposed to be here—_

_And where was he?_

_In a burst of adrenaline, Thorin tore through the wispy body in front of him with the steel of his sword. Momentarily free, he took the time to glance around, breaths coming faster and faster because_ where, _where was he? There was nothing, nothing but darkness and smoke—_

_Bilbo?_

_Something like a gasp sounded behind him and he whirled around, frantic, to find Bilbo glaring at him, arms crossed. Thorin felt all the breath in his lungs leave him in a rush, so caught up in relief because Bilbo was whole and so wonderfully alive, and he was so overwhelmed that Bilbo's words almost didn't register._

_"Look at you! You're filthy! You've tracked mud all over the floor—how many times have I told you to wipe your boots on the welcome mat, if you must keep them on at all?"_

_What?_

_Thorin stared at him, then down at his feet, squinting in confusion when he saw paneled wooden floorboards underneath his boots instead of blood and bodies. His head whipped up to look at Bilbo again, and his mind reeled and he stumbled back when he saw his surroundings had changed as well. It looked like... Bag End, his mind supplied. But smaller, more compact. Like what he would have expected from its outward appearance. The effect was so disorienting he had to close his eyes for a moment. "Thorin? Are you alright?"_

_Thorin's attention turned to Bilbo again, who was staring at him, concerned. Thorin opened his mouth, but found he didn't know what to say. Bilbo blinked at him, then took him by the arm, leading him further in, saying, "oh, nevermind about the mud—I can clean it, just, you should sit down, you look too pale."_

_They entered the dining area and Thorin froze at what he saw. There were twelve seats in total, but only three place settings out. Three plates, three sets of silverware, three chairs pulled out slightly away from the table. Bilbo didn't pay it any mind, brushing past Thorin to head to the kitchen a bit farther down. "Go ahead and take a seat," Bilbo said, opening a cabinet. "I'll get you something to eat. That's probably all you need. I always say, a full stomach can solve most problems."_

_Thorin swallowed, urging his legs to move again, not entirely sure why the sight of the table had set him so ill at ease. Slowly, he lowered himself into one of the chairs. He stared at the third place setting along the table, frowning._

_"Death comes in threes, you know," he heard Bilbo's voice say, casually, conversationally, and he whipped his head up, heartbeat pounding in his ears._

_"_ What? _" Thorin demanded, his voice rough with disuse._

_Bilbo glanced back, a look of startled confusion on his face. "I didn't say anything," he stated slowly, eyebrow raised._

_Thorin stared at him, at Bilbo's strange, almost challenging gaze meeting his own._

_Thorin swallowed. "You... I heard," he said. Bilbo stared at him, eyes unnaturally bright in the dim lighting. Thorin blinked. "Nothing. It was nothing." He hoped._

_Bilbo gave him one last look, then turned back the oven. He didn't move to continue what he'd been doing however, merely stood still, one hand reaching into his pocket and coming out clenched—_

_No. Not clenched._

_He was holding something._

_Thorin frowned, unsure of what felt so wrong here, eyes ghosting over that extra table setting. "Are you expecting someone?"_

_Bilbo's head turned slightly, quirking to the right at the sound of Thorin's voice, but not far enough that he could see his face. "No."_

_"Did you set the table?" he tried again._

_Bilbo didn't reply, but Thorin could tell he had heard, his head tilting further, tips of his hair brushing his shoulder._

_Thorin slowly pushed himself up, the sound of the chair scraping against the floor sounding too loud in the silence. "Bilbo."_

_Bilbo didn't respond, still turned away, still clutching at whatever it was in his right hand so tightly his knuckles were white. Thorin approached him cautiously, as he would a skittish animal. "Bilbo, are you alright?"_

_Again, no response. Thorin felt something like icy dread stab at his stomach. "Bilbo?"_

_He moved to take his arm, taking long strides. "Bilbo, look at me," Thorin murmured, turning him slightly in order to see his face._

_But Bilbo wasn't looking at him, gaze locked on something behind him, eyes glazed over. Thorin took him by the shoulders and shook him. "Bilbo! What—" he began, but he cut off as a sudden beam of light blinded him, making him turn his head away._

_Squinting, he cast his eyes around the room, stopping on Bilbo's hand. There was light streaming from his fist, from whatever he was holding, bright enough that it lit the skin red. Almost without thinking, Thorin reached a hand out to place it over Bilbo's. The moment he came into contact with skin Bilbo's body jerked, and Thorin's eyes snapped to Bilbo's face. There was still that blank look, but now Bilbo's mouth was open, blood dripping from his lips, soaking through the fabric of his shirt, hair matted with it. Red, all red._

_Thorin stumbled back, a strangled sound escaping from the back of his throat, and as he did so Bilbo disappeared. Gone, vanished in a second. He reached a hand out, fingers curling at the open air where moments ago Bilbo had stood._

_Thorin glanced down. There was still blood coating the floorboards. Pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, he closed his eyes and tried to not scream._

_He opened them when he heard a strange noise behind him. It sounded like the crackling of fire._

_Bilbo had been staring at something, he realized._

_Slowly, Thorin turned around._

 

* * *

 

Thorin woke drenched in sweat, frantically pushing the covers away. He kept his eyes open wide because every time he closed them he saw a fiery afterimage painted on the backs of his eyelids.

An eye, he thought. Watching him.

He felt overheated, as if flames had actually been licking at his skin. He jerked upright, sighing in relief when the sheets released their grip on his legs, and rested his head against the wall. Glancing to his left, at the spot next to him, he caught Bilbo looking up at him, one eye open in mild curiosity. "Bad one?" Bilbo asked, stretching and turning to lay facing Thorin fully.

A memory of _red_ flashed across Bilbo's earnest expression, and Thorin swallowed and closed his eyes briefly. "Yes."

Thorin cast his gaze over the space between them, suddenly finding himself wondering what this was. This routine where they shared a bed. He wondered if hobbits commonly did this, if it was something as trivial as sharing a handshake or a wave. It wasn't uncommon in Erebor either. In the barracks, in the soldiers' quarters, for two to share a bed was commonplace. Not all of them merely slept, however.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Bilbo asked, sitting up now, rubbing at his eyes.

Thorin stared at the spot of skin that appeared when Bilbo's tunic rode up, shaking his head and averting his gaze when Bilbo looked at him questioningly. "No. Not really."

Bilbo studied him, leaning on one arm. "I think we both need a bit of distraction today," he concluded, blowing a lock of hair from his eyes.

Thorin stared at him, before realizing that it was the day of the party. "You're worried."

"I don't know," Bilbo shrugged. "All in all it probably won't be too bad. It's more than likely the only unpleasant thing that'll happen will be my inevitable run in with Lobelia."

Thorin scowled at the name, remembering her from the day before. "You should not have to suffer her petty accusations," he growled.

Bilbo blinked at him, seemingly as surprised as he was by the venom in his voice. "I don't entirely blame her for being bitter about things," he said after a moment, glancing at Thorin before looking away. "She married into the Baggins name expecting all the perks that came with it. Expecting a spot in the line of succession. Didn't quite work out that way."

Thorin shook his head, scoffing. "Still. In Erebor, at least, there are repercussions if one slanders the King or any of his kin."

Bilbo stared at him, alarmed. "What, you just go chopping off people's heads if they don't agree with you?"

"No, of course not," Thorin sighed.  "They are not so much punished as reprimanded. Which is seemingly not the case here. Does it not bother you?"

Thorin saw Bilbo swallow, throat bobbing, eyes lowering. "It's not like what she was saying wasn't true."

Thorin knew, knew Bilbo didn't mean what immediately jumped to his mind, but that didn't stop the thought or the sick feeling that came with it. "What? Like the bad luck of dwarrows? The curse on _my_ line?" Thorin demanded angrily.

Bilbo sat up straighter, reaching a hand out and placing it on Thorin's leg. "That's not what I meant. Of course that's not true."

Thorin took a shaky breath. "And if it is?"

Bilbo frowned, saying, "of course it isn't—" but Thorin interrupted.

"How much have you heard of my grandfather, King Thror?"

Bilbo furrowed his brow, but answered, "not much. He ruled before your father?"

Thorin nodded. "He also ruled with few things but gold on his mind. He grew hungrier—not only for items of value, but land, influence." Thorin paused, swallowing. "It was his intention to take back lands lost to us, long overtaken by creatures of darkness. We called it Khazad-dum. It has since earned the name Moria, a name sullied by elves who use it to warn their children of the greediness of dwarrows—"

Bilbo's hand on his cheek cut him off. "You don't have to tell me this."

Thorin met his eyes, curiously wide, honest and sad. "I know." He paused, studied Bilbo's face, still open and silently attentive. "Needless to say it was a failure. Even our greatest masses since the First Age didn't stand a chance against such a number of Orcs."

Thorin noticed Bilbo's jaw tighten. "You fought, didn't you?" he asked quietly.

"Yes."

"Did Frerin...?"

Thorin shook his head. "No, he... he was not yet of age."

"And you were?" Bilbo asked abruptly.

Thorin looked away. "I do not regret serving for that cause. It was a rallying force for dwarrows who were wary of the effort. To see the King's grandson as one who would also fight for the retaking," he said, and even after everything he couldn't help but try to rationalize his grandfather's actions, his madness. It sounded flimsy, even to his own ears. _Those who do not fight for their kin and their King are weak._

Thorin could almost feel Bilbo disagree, it was in the way his body shifted and tensed, but instead Bilbo said, "this was the battle. The one you almost told Frodo about... the day you arrived."

"Yes."

"You have nightmares about it." It wasn't a question.

Thorin nodded again, slower this time. "Not always. Of the battle. But recently... they feel more real. And they've begun to... to include..." He stopped, shivered, closing his eyes against false memories that rose unbidden. "Other things."

Bilbo studied his face. "Do you want to talk about it any more?"

Almost immediately, a wispy image of Bilbo's blood-covered frame invaded his mind. "No."

Bilbo accepted this, nodding. "Okay." He paused, looked at Thorin, looked down, then looked at Thorin again. "I'm rather hungry. Do you know how to bake?"

"No," Thorin answered, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at Bilbo's small smile.

Bilbo clambered out of bed, and offered a hand. "Would you like to?"

Thorin stared at him. "What?"

Bilbo's smile softened. "I think we both deserve a bit of a break, hmm?"

 

* * *

 

"First ingredient is flour," Bilbo mumbled, muffled with his head buried in one of the deep pantries of Bag End's kitchen.

Thorin eyed the other workers, who were in turn giving the two of them curious glances. "I thought you baked in that shop with... Master Griffo, was it?"

"Ugh," came Bilbo's voice, "too far."

Thorin snorted. "The bowl or the shop?"

Bilbo's head popped back out. "Both."

Thorin offered to get it instead while Bilbo searched for the flour, managing to unearth seven pans and three bowls before he found one that satisfied Bilbo. "We need a big one," he had said.

"Why?" Thorin had asked, frowning as his hand glanced over something circular. He wasn't nearly small enough to be able to look in and search as Bilbo had, though he did have longer arms and met some degree of success.

"Because you're going to be mixing the ingredients. And you're going to make a mess. This way it'll be a smaller mess."

Thorin had rolled his eyes by way of reply.

Bilbo handed Thorin the bag of flour as he rummaged through a drawer for a whisk. Turning the bag over in his hands, Thorin found what appeared to be the seal and tried to open it from there. Bilbo turned just as he was about to break the seal, and Thorin saw his eyes widen in the moment that the bag split open. Flour exploded into the air, and, since Thorin had angled the bag away from himself, also all over Bilbo. "Oh," Thorin mumbled.

Bilbo looked at him incredulously, flour even coating his eyelashes, and his face screwed up in a violent sneeze. Thorin started to laugh.

Bilbo's affronted sounding huff made him laugh harder. He was laughing so hard, in fact, that he didn't notice Bilbo stooping down to pick up the bag. Thorin cut off when the rest of the flour was dumped onto his head. "Ha!" Bilbo exclaimed, chuckling. "Payback!"

He blinked at Bilbo, wide eyed. "Didn't we need that?"

Bilbo shrugged. "I'm sure we can find more," he grinned.

 

* * *

 

They managed to make two pies and one slightly deflated soufflé before a wide eyed kitchen worker came up to them, letting them know that they were about to put out hors d'oeuvres and that guests had been trickling into Bag End for the past half hour. Bilbo's smile only dimmed slightly, and even so it almost looked like a trick of the light. Still, he thanked the hobbit and with a look to Thorin, they both made their way quickly back to his room. Even Thorin knew it wouldn't do to show up covered in flour.

Bilbo was quiet, but didn't appear anxious. Merely, lost in thought.

 

* * *

 

Thorin's first observation when they entered the dining hall, converted to be able to host a multitude of tables, was that it seemed everyone he had seen in or around the Shire was here. There seemed so many of them now, all in one place. There was movement, dancing, and a wave of noise, from the small band playing to the people talking amongst themselves. He spotted the other dwarrows almost immediately, mostly because the majority of them were taller than any of the other guests.

Nearly the moment they had arrived, Bilbo was buffered with "happy birthdays" and "how are yous" by hobbits left and right, and though Thorin could see the barrage threw Bilbo a bit off balance, the smiles in return were genuine. It was nice to see, that despite hobbits like Lobelia, Bilbo was clearly well liked by many, especially a lot of the younger hobbits, Thorin noticed. Some even introduced themselves to him, something he really hadn't been expecting, and though he disliked pleasantries he thought he managed rather well. Before long, Bilbo had been carted off by a young hobbit named Pippin, and when he shot a backward glance at Thorin, he smiled and waved him off. He was fairly certain he could survive all the small-talk.

"Ah, Prince Thorin!" came Master Griffo's voice from behind him, and he turned to see the baker's jovial expression, taking in the slightly reddened cheeks and the tankard in hand.

"Master Griffo," he replied, inclining his head slightly.

"Oh, no, no, none o' this _Master_ business," the hobbit told him, waving his free hand. "Makes me sound old."

"Griffo, then."

Griffo nodded, satisfied, then gave Thorin an assessing look. "How is the Shire treating you? Is it much different from Erebor?"

"In many ways it is," Thorin answered honestly, casting his gaze about as he spoke. He caught sight of Bilbo in the crowd, smiling, and he finished, "but I have not found it lacking." Turning back to Griffo he added, "I've actually found it a bit of a respite from the duties I have in Erebor."

"Well," Griffo beamed, "glad to hear it. You know, once I might've thought you of rather the opposite view."

"Perhaps, once," Thorin admitted, "but first impressions, I'm told, are often wrong."

"Oh? And who did the telling?"

Thorin chuckled. "Let's just say it was constantly shouted at me until I couldn't ignore it."

A loud bout of laughter sounded from their right, and Thorin turned to see that Dwalin and Bofur had apparently started up a game of cards at one of the tables, and it had amassed a growing crowd. "Speaking of shouting," Griffo said, grinning. Then, "I'll probably try my luck at a hand or two. The night's young. Oh, did you happen to see Bilbo anywhere? I've yet to wish him a happy birthday, and it won't due to let that sit much longer."

Thorin looked to where he had seen Bilbo last, only to find that he was gone. "The last time I saw him, he was over there," Thorin pointed, and Griffo followed the line of sight.

"Suppose I'll go find him then," Griffo told him. "Enjoy the evening!"

"You as well," Thorin called after him.

Thorin was just about to make his way to Dwalin, thinking he might join in for a game, when a sound of silverware against glass caught his attention. He looked toward the source of the noise to see the King, and the wizard sitting beside him. Everything quieted down once people realized the King would likely say something, and when all the racket that was left in the hall was hushed whispering, the King spoke.

"I realize," he began with a small smile, his voice carrying across the room, "that many of you are anxious to return to the ale and the food, so I promise I'll be brief." There were some chuckles at that, and after a beat the King continued, "I know the recent weeks have been... worrisome. For many of of us. In fact, many things in the past few years have been... disheartening, to say the very least."

The silence of the crowd was absolute now, and even though King Bungo's words were general, the hobbits in the crowd seemed to understand. Thorin wondered if the King was alluding to the health of the queen, though Bilbo had only told him very little of the subject. "However, I am grateful that you are all here, and we are all able to rejoice and celebrate with light hearts and good food."

A cheer went up at that, and some raised their mugs. "Even still, the concern of the safety of the Shire has not left my mind," Bungo continued when the noise had died down again. "I'm sure, you have not failed to notice the dwarrows among you," he joked lightly, but Thorin tensed at the words. He had almost forgotten what the King intended for tonight, and almost unconsciously he sought out Bilbo, who was still nowhere to be found.

"In light of recent events, I have determined that an alliance with Erebor will be of great benefit to the Shire." Fevered whispering ran rampant through the crowd at that, but Thorin noticed that only a few looked surprised at the news. He supposed many had already guessed as to why the company were guests at Bag End. "In order to certify this arrangement, my son will marry one of the sons of Thráin, King of Erebor." Thorin felt more than saw the eyes of nearby hobbits on him, and he shifted unconsciously under the scrutiny.

"I know some are wary of this—after all, the Shire has been self-sustaining for many generations. To those worries, I answer that this agreement will not change the workings of the Shire, but rather provide us with allies and friends in hard times as well as times of plenty. I would ask you to remember that despite these measures I have taken, there is no pressing danger or worry you should be concerned about. I only think it right to inform you of these up and coming events. But please, tonight, let us forget politics, and remember the necessities. Good food, a warm hearth, and all the comforts of home."

With a nod to the band, the music started up again as the King sat back down. Thorin looked around expecting disquiet, but it was rather something of the opposite. It seemed people were eager to get back to talking, the room buzzing with energy. Now, at least, they had something substantial to talk about. Hobbits, Thorin had learned, were always up to talk about things.

Just as he thought the announcement had gone off better than he'd thought it would, something hard smacked into the back of his head. "You never told us!"

Thorin whirled around, rubbing at his head, to find Ori, narrow eyed, holding a book in his hands. Thorin eyed it, irritated. "You hit me with a book," he commented flatly.

"I can't believe you never told us!" Ori said, voice lowered slightly, his hands on his hips.

Thorin was about to ask what on earth he was talking about, before he realized that only he, Frerin, Dwalin, and Balin knew the true nature of the agreement with the Shire. The others had never actually been told the specifics. "Oh," Thorin mumbled sheepishly.

"Yes! Oh is right!"

Thorin swallowed. "Are the others as mad as you are?" he asked in trepidation.

Ori puffed out his cheeks, then sighed. "I'm not... I'm not angry," he admitted, "just—exasperated, I suppose. And, no, they're actually not. Bofur and Nori said they suspected something, Bifur didn't say much of anything, and Dori—well, he was a bit shocked, but he took it in stride."

"With everything that's happened since we arrived, it slipped my mind that not everyone... knew. Frerin too, I'm sure," Thorin offered. "So... you're not angry?"

Ori gave him a look. "No. I yelled at Dwalin before you, so I've got it mostly out of my system," he huffed, and Thorin laughed. "Though, I might be a bit cross with Bilbo. I haven't heard an excuse from him yet."

Thorin frowned. "So you haven't seen him?"

Ori shook his head. "Though when I do," he said, placing the book into his bag as if holstering a weapon, "you'll be the first to know."

 

* * *

 

Thorin found Nori next, collecting a large number of drinks that Thorin hoped wasn't all for himself. "Nori," he called, and the dwarf turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Here comes the bride. Or one of them, at least," Nori quipped, and Thorin scowled at him, though he was silently grateful he wouldn't have to deal with Nori's wrath. He had no doubt it would be terrifying.

"Have you seen Bilbo?"

"I have actually," Nori answered, setting the pints down. "He's out on the balcony, over there," he pointed to an archway with curtains billowing in the night wind.

Thorin gave a nod of thanks, and made to go over, when Nori called, "oh, and make sure he doesn't tumble over or anything, would you? Think he's been—" Nori made a "drinking" gesture with his hands.

Thorin rolled his eyes. "Couldn't have been enough to worry the likes of _you._ "

Nori shrugged. "Hey, it's his birthday," he said, walking backwards and somehow not running into anyone. "He can drink as much as he wants."

With that, he turned around and headed off into the crowd. Thorin stared after him for a moment, before shrugging and making his way to the area Nori had pointed out. Eyeing the curtains blowing into the room, he pushed one back, revealing Bilbo leaning on a railing and looking out at the hills.

Thorin came up next to him, and murmured, "I assume you heard your father's announcement."

Bilbo didn't answer. A chill ran up Thorin's spine, because this, he felt was too much like his dream, blurring at the edges, but he could still remember _this._

"Bilbo," Thorin said, only slightly relieved when Bilbo replied, "what? Oh, yes, yes," because it sounded distant and distracted and Bilbo wasn't even looking at him.

Frowning, Thorin turned to see what it was Bilbo was looking at. He scanned the horizon for anything of interest, and his eyes caught a small figure, blacker than the night around it, on one of the distant hills. Squinting, he could see it looked like a rider on a horse. A Ranger, perhaps? "Huh," he murmured, "I had not realized Rangers to be common here."

Thorin looked back at Bilbo when the hobbit turned to look at him, his head whipping toward him so quickly that the motion was somewhat startling. "What did you say?" Bilbo asked, wide eyed.

Thorin frowned at him, trying to read his expression. "I said I had not realized—"

"You see it too?"

Thorin blinked. "What?"

"That person, out there," Bilbo said, voice frantic, "that man on the horse, you see that?"

Thorin stared at him, worried. "Of course I do."

Bilbo opened his mouth, closed it, then said, slowly, "I asked Frerin, when he was out here with Frodo a little while ago." Bilbo swallowed. "Neither of them saw it."

Thorin shook his head slowly, and reasoned, "perhaps they couldn't make it out—"

"Then, I asked Nori. He has the sharpest eyes of anyone I know," Bilbo mumbled, casting another glance out to the figure, and Thorin couldn't help but do so as well. Whatever it was, it was still there. "He didn't see it either," Bilbo said, and his voice was small.

"Are you sure he was looking in the right place?"

Bilbo nodded shakily. "I pointed right at it. Nori said there was nothing. That there was nothing there," he breathed.

There was a heavy silence, in which they both stared at the figure, still as death. "Are you certain it's not a Ranger?" Thorin tried one last time, trying to fight the growing feeling of unease rising in his stomach.

He saw Bilbo shake his head, face pale, in his peripheral vision. There was a swell in the music from inside, a swell of laughter, but they didn't look away. "Do you think it's a person?"

"I don't know what else it could be."

"If it is," Bilbo managed, voice wavering, "you should know that they haven't moved for the better part of an hour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot.  
> Is.  
> Here.  
> ...Phew.


	15. Devils From Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My God, it's been a while. I self-impose deadlines for my writing and this chapter was embarrassingly, ridiculously late. *hides face in hands* I apologize, but I hope you enjoy as plot comes running headfirst through the door ;)

_"If it is, you should know that they haven't moved for the better part of an hour."_

Thorin gaped at him for a moment, processing his words, and cast another glance out to that still shadow. He reached out a hand, searching for the railing with his fingers, hoping to lean out a bit farther and see if he could get a clearer look. Instead, his hand found Bilbo’s, and even with the lightest touch Thorin could tell he was shaking. That was enough. Thorin had long since learned to trust his instincts above all else, and in that moment the dread in his stomach told him all he needed to know. _Danger._

“Stay here,” Thorin murmured, and he made to turn back inside but Bilbo caught his arm.

“Where are you going?” he asked, eyes wide and searching.

Thorin’s eyes flitted again to that hill. “I'm going to see who or what it is.” He looked at Bilbo again and said, more forcefully, “stay here.”

Bilbo didn't even let him take two steps before he was in front of him. “I'm coming with you.”

Thorin sighed and began, exasperated, “Bilbo—”

“I need to know,” Bilbo said firmly. He glanced back. “I need to know why we are the only ones who see it,” he finished quietly.

Thorin stared at him, and Bilbo stared back. “Fine,” Thorin relented. “But you stay _behind_ me.”

Bilbo frowned at that, but nodded curtly. At Bilbo’s slightly miffed expression, Thorin sighed. “I do not ask this of you to be patronizing,” he murmured, glad when Bilbo’s eyes immediately softened. “It's only...” _I cannot stand the thought of something happening to you._ “We do not know what it is,” he said instead. “It could be dangerous.”

Bilbo swallowed, eyes drifting to the nameless, unmoving shadow. “Perhaps,” he said eventually. Looking back at Thorin, Bilbo said, “I promise I'll stay behind you.”

Thorin nodded, turning away after being momentarily distracted by Bilbo’s open and trusting expression. He still wasn't used to being looked at in such a way. “Probably,” he heard Bilbo quip as soon as he'd turned his back.

Thorin glanced back, exasperated, but Bilbo was already slipping past him, taking a hold of his hand as he did so. When they reentered the room sound buffeted them from all sides, almost overwhelming. Bilbo weaved his way through the crowd, expertly deflecting those who tried to draw him into conversation while still maintaining an air of politeness. Thorin saw Bilbo was clearly headed for the large double doors which would lead them, eventually, to the front foyer, but Thorin stopped him. "Not that way," he murmured, and at Bilbo's questioning, confused glance, Thorin added, "there's something I need."

Bilbo still looked confused, but he followed after wordlessly. Thorin lead him back to his room, striding into it and crouching to reach for the sword under his bed. When he pulled it out, Bilbo’s eyes widened. “Oh,” he murmured.

Thorin swiped his scabbard and his belt from where it hung on the bedpost and buckled it around his waist, carefully watching Bilbo’s expression. “A precaution,” he assured as he slid the sword into the scabbard.

“Do you think we’ll need it?” Bilbo asked uneasily.

Thorin glanced at him, took in the way the flickering light from the lanterns played across his pale face, drawing and pulling at shadows. In that moment, Thorin so badly wanted to close the distance between them, wanted to kiss him and make sure he never had cause to be worried again.

“I don't think so,” he said instead.

Bilbo nodded, looking somewhat more at ease, and they made their way out, past the noise that filtered its way out from the dining hall, not a soul in sight when they left.

The wind had a bite to it, though the night sky was clear of clouds. It should have snowed today, Thorin belatedly realized. If the weather had continued its pattern. But the night was calm, quiet, the sound of cicadas the only break in the silence. Thorin cast a glance out to where he had remembered the strange figure to be. There was nothing.

Nothing there.

He wanted to believe they had perhaps imagined it, that it had been some malformed tree branch or stump. Or that, if it had been a person, they had long since left. But Thorin could feel something unnatural in the quiet, something almost stifling. “Thorin,” Bilbo whispered, pulling on his arm and making him turn, breathless terror in his voice.

The thing, that person, was there, suddenly, mere feet from them. Thorin inhaled sharply, teeth clacking together. When had it moved? How? Immediately, Thorin pushed Bilbo behind him, and put his hand on the hilt of his sword. His adrenaline was thrumming, heart pounding, because he hadn't heard _anything,_ no movement at all. Even now, as he observed the person's features up close—a cloaked figure, so black they seemed to soak up the darkness, sitting atop an armored horse with eyes that looked almost red—he could hear nothing, not even a breath, from the horse or its rider. Thorin couldn't see a face beneath the hood, but its head seemed to track Bilbo's movements, only facing Thorin when Bilbo stumbled behind him. Even then, Thorin was almost certain it wasn’t looking at him, but rather _through_ him. "Who are you?" he demanded.

The figure didn't answer, but tilted its head, the motion slow and calculated, and metal clad hands tightened on the reins. A chill ran through Thorin's spine. Something about this person, this thing was familiar, as if he'd seen something, or its likeness, before.

Black, Thorin thought. All consuming, suffocating.

The names filled his head like smoke, consuming all rational thoughts. Black Rider. Wraith. Nazgûl.

Death.

 

* * *

 

Sixty Years Ago

_Thorin glanced at the towering, intimidating pile of books in front of him, and huffed a sigh through his nose. Balin gave him a look over the text he was reading. "Finished?" he asked, and Thorin twisted his mouth into a frown._

_"Course not," he grumbled. "Do you know how long this'll take me?"_

_"About as long as it will take your father to return from the Greenwood and continue your diplomacy lessons," Balin returned immediately, not looking up from the page he was marking._

_Thorin narrowed his eyes at him, certain that even though Balin was not looking he would catch the gesture. Somehow._

_Grudgingly, he returned his attention to the book laid out in front of him. It wasn't that the content wasn't interesting, but rather the fact that there was so much of it. Thorin turned a page. The contents described The Battle of Dagorlad, a dark image accompanying of two armies clashing, one of gold and the other of black. Thorin tilted his head, staring intently at it. He thought he could make out one figure, taller than the rest, who seemed to grow against the paper, the corners of the parchment blackened and fading. Swallowing, Thorin's eyes drifted away and scanned the lines written at the top of the page._ The forces of evil were inevitably defeated by the union of all free peoples of middle earth, the army deemed—

 _"The Alliance of Men and_ Elves _?" Thorin growled indignantly, causing Balin to look up at him with a raised eyebrow. "But it wasn't just them!" Thorin blinked at Balin when he didn't respond. "Right? It was 'all free peoples!' Course they'd give all the credit to_ elves. _"_

_Balin sighed. "Are you so distracted by a name that you have not realized the significance of the battle?"_

_A little embarrassed, Thorin glanced down at the writing again. His eyes skimmed the words, only tripping on the common writing occasionally. He still wasn't entirely accustomed to the markings—Khuzdul, of course, was much easier for him to read quickly._

_He breathed the word as he read it, eyes widening. "Sauron... The Dark Lord?"_

_Balin nodded. "Along with the Witch King of Angmar."_

_"They were defeated?" Thorin asked tentatively. He had only heard stories, mainly those of older dwarflings who boasted of the wars their fathers fought in, but only those of Sauron and his deeds. When Balin replied the affirmative, Thorin asked, "who was the Witch King? What did he do"_

_"Is he not mentioned in the manuscript?" Balin asked, surprised._

_Thorin shook his head. Balin set his book down. "He was a man, once," he began, "a king of men. But he was corrupted by the power Sauron offered him and fell into his service. In fact—"_

_"What power?"_

_Balin blinked at him. "What?"_

_"The power that corrupted them. Was it wealth?" Thorin asked._

_"In a sense..." Balin responded cryptically. "To those who did not know its power it would seem a trinket."_

_Thorin's breath caught, and he couldn't help the words that tumbled out of his mouth. "Like grandfather's Arkenstone?"_

_Balin looked sharply at him, expression briefly pained. "No. They were rings."_

_Thorin scoffed, though his expression became contrite when Balin's disapproving stare settled on him. "Forgive me, Balin, but I find it hard to believe that even men could be turned to evil through such trivial things."_

_"As I said, these were not mere trinkets. They were forged in darkness, bound to Sauron. Bound to the One Ring. They corrupted and possessed, leading nine kings of men to betray their own and bow to Sauron's hand."_

_"Nine?"_

_"The Nine," Balin murmured, gaze distant. "The Nazgûl. Lead by the Witch King, Sauron's right hand."_

_"Were they not men?" Thorin asked, and when Balin looked at him questioningly he continued, "were they not mortal as men are? As dwarrows?"_

_Balin's face was shadowed. "They were men no longer. Their hearts turned... cold. Not men, but creatures of evil, powerful and capable of cruelty beyond imagining."_

_Thorin tightened his jaw, fighting down the uneasiness he felt. Addâd, he told himself, never seemed afraid of anything. "And they are... gone?" he asked tentatively._

_Balin blinked, shook his head, and picked up his quill to return to his writings. "Yes, they were defeated when their master was."_

_Thorin nodded, silently exhaling, but he stiffened when he heard Balin's words, murmured so quietly Thorin was sure he was not meant to hear. "Let us hope."_

* * *

 

 

Thorin's blood ran cold, and in one swift movement, he drew his sword.. "Bilbo," he said, voice surprisingly steady, not taking his eyes off the creature. "Go inside." He did not know if the creature was truly a Wraith, but if there was the slightest chance it might be, he would not chance it. He could only guess at what it might do. The Nine had not been seen for nearly 500 years.

Thorin heard Bilbo's breathing quicken, and his grip on Thorin's arm tightened. "Thorin—"

But Thorin didn't hear the rest, because in that moment the creature and its steed moved with an unnatural speed, the horse's hooves pounding into the dirt. “Go _now!_ ” he shouted, in the same moment calculating just how high and at what angle he should raise his sword for a killing blow. Use the enemy’s momentum against them, his mind told him. The figure, not the horse. One was more dangerous than the other. He desperately hoped that Bilbo was on his way to safety, but he couldn't even glance over, there wasn't any _time—_

He braced himself for the blow, stance wide. _Don't swing. Don't swing, waste of energy, might even rip your arms off._ The Rider was almost upon him, and Thorin grit his teeth, preparing for the jarring impact, but at the very last moment the horse changed direction, a maneuver which, at that speed, should have been impossible. Thorin barely had time to react, saw a ghost-like blade swung at his chest instead of oncoming hooves and managed to bring his sword up to counter the blow. In an instant, he knew the Nazgûl’s blade was coming too fast, that he couldn't stop it. He wouldn't escape injury, but the blow wouldn't be fatal. He braced himself as best he could.

Impact.

Only, Thorin realized, in the very moment, there was no impact. There was no impossible force pressing against his sword—the Rider’s blade sailed _through_ his, as if it were nothing, as if it were _air._ Then, it sank into his chest, and Thorin couldn't find the breath to scream.

It didn't feel like steel—it felt like ice, like his nerves were on fire, in agony. He couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe because the cold was a constricting vice around his lungs, crushing and bone jarring. It wasn't pain, not really, but rather like he was freezing from the inside, like he was caught and couldn't move.

Then, the blade seemed to twist, and his vision whited out.

He became half aware of the feeling of grass beneath his cheek, of fresh air in his lungs as he took aching, rattling breaths, but he felt numb. He registered what sounded like a scream of his name, distant and faint as if shouted through a tunnel. Thorin was struck by a jolt of energy at the sound, because he knew that voice, that voice was important, but he couldn't seem to make his limbs move.

It was the silence afterward that made him pause, made him struggle to open his eyes and _look,_ and just moving his head was an incredible feat and movement _ached_ , but he had to, because something was wrong, there was someone, someone important—

Bilbo. Thorin saw him through blurry vision, sprawled on the ground, eyes closed, breathing imperceptible. There was a sound, a roaring in his ears, and he could just barely make out—

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no..."

Oh.

It was him. He hadn't noticed.

He was lying on his side. He knew this, could tell by the way his left arm was pinned painfully beneath him, and he turned over slowly, entire body thrumming with fatigue. It felt as if he'd run for hours and the air, the air was frigid and somehow suffocating around him. Still, he tried to stand.

When he couldn't stand, he crawled, grasping at bunches of grass as he willed his legs to work again, every breath torn from the vise of his chest. His lungs rattled, didn't feel right, and yet he knew what injury felt like from years of experience and this was not the same. This was different, more bone deep than any matter of flesh. But Bilbo, Bilbo was more important. Mahal, he hadn't even seen what had happened to him, only had silence to guide him, and what if—

Thorin violently pushed the thought away, putting every effort into coordinating his movements, one hand clutching at the ache in his chest as if forcibly trying to still the unnatural speed of his heart.

The enemy. Look for the enemy.

He stopped, immediately glancing back to where his sword fell, it's surface coated with what looked like ice. He fumbled for it, the action took him several tries and he panicked because he was wasting too much time—that creature, it might—

He shot up with a panicked jolt of energy, sword in his hands, ready—

There was no one. The only movement that touched the grass was the rustle of the wind. Thorin blinked, stared, and blinked again when his vision became spotty and blurry at the edges. Choking down a breath, he glanced at Bilbo and, stumbling and stomach churning, made his way to him.

He reached Bilbo's side and immediately scanned him for injuries, hands going to his face. His breaths were slow and shallow—not ideal, but not necessarily a sign of something worse. Something fatal. Thorin's hand brushed his cheek, the barest touch, and he couldn't help the immediate instinct to recoil.

Bilbo was _freezing._ Swallowing down panic, he took a closer look, hand going to Bilbo's neck in order to check the pulse. It was rapid, thrumming against the skin, and Thorin knew the signs, had seen soldiers close to death because they'd been caught for days in heavy snow, fighting a chill that invaded their lungs and their very being. He gathered Bilbo into his arms as best he could, bringing his head to his chest and murmuring into his hair. His lungs screamed at him as he spoke, burning, and breaths came agonizingly short, leaving him light headed and gasping. The ground seemed to shift and he felt as if it were slipping away from him. He let himself fall backward, one hand tangled in Bilbo's hair and eyes blinking slowly at the sky, at the stars.

 

* * *

 

_"The stars are like fire, Thorin," his mother told him, smiling even while she was dying._

_"Amad—"_

_"Fire, in our souls, in our hearts," she murmured, eyes glazed, and he was only half listening, sobbing at her side because he was old enough now to know that death meant never coming back. She glanced at him, all the warmth and strength of fire in her eyes, even then. "You have a fire in you, men azaghâl. A fire that burns stronger than the forges." She smiled. "I can see it," she said softly, and tapped his nose._

_He would give all of that fire away if he could see her without that distant, worrying look in her eyes. If he could trade fire for life._

_He would give anything._

 

* * *

 

Fire. Warmth. The sharing of warmth—but there was a strange buzzing at the back of his eyes and his lungs stabbed at him every time he took a breath, and he thought, fleetingly, there was no warmth here. Thorin blinked away dizziness as he fought to keep his thoughts in order.

That creature. Thorin remembered the sharp tear of a phantom-like blade whip through him, the kind of prickling agony it wrought, and thought, _oh_.

The world spun for a moment as the realization hit him, and Thorin inhaled sharply, coughing at the flair of cold pain in his lungs. Thorin could feel no physical wound, on him or Bilbo, but he knew that their danger was not in bleeding out.

This is what it felt like to freeze to death.

"No," Thorin rasped, and Mahal, he didn't even recognize the voice that came out of him. But Aulë help him, Bag End was _right there,_ help was a few feet from them, and he could barely muster up the energy to speak. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He had to get them inside.

Summoning his strength, Thorin took Bilbo into his arms and stood up, his progress slow and shaky, but still progress. Bilbo's head rested in the crook of his arm and Thorin thought, had he been at his full strength, he might've felt light. But even standing upright for this long was a struggle, especially with the burden of another body, and his breaths almost immediately became painfully shallow, grey shadows dancing at the corners of his eyes.

Pausing to make sure Bilbo was still breathing—he was, almost imperceptibly, but still, Thorin could only be glad of it—he took one step, then another, and Bag End had once seemed so close, but in that moment seemed miles away.

After what felt like hours, he stumbled against the door, his body crashing against it, though he was careful to shield Bilbo from it. He couldn't feel his fingers, could barely keep his grip on Bilbo, let alone attempt to open the door. The terrifying numbness had invaded his legs, made them feel like dead weights, and he barely sucked enough air between his lips to keep him going. He hit his shoulder against the door once, twice. How ironic it would be, to die feet from salvation.

"Help," he tried, voice rasping and burning his throat. It barely cut through the sound of the wind.

He could feel himself fading quickly, could barely see through flickering black spots. He looked down at Bilbo and tried one last time, slamming his shoulder against the wood. He should have been worried he couldn't even feel the impact, but his mind was so clouded over the thought didn't even register.

Finally, the door opened, and Thorin all but fell inside, legs giving out. He was met with a brightly lit ceiling and blissful warmth, and a worried face filled his vision. He squinted at it, sure he'd seen it before. Wide brown eyes and wispy blonde hair.

Rose, he thought. The hobbit who had come to his door in search of Bilbo. He saw her lips move as if she were saying something to him, but he couldn't seem to make out the words.

The last thing he was aware of before unconsciousness took him was Bilbo's breath, cold and weak, on his face.

 

* * *

 

He woke to the sound of hushed voices and the feeling of a bone-deep weariness. Memories came filtering in almost immediately and he snapped his eyes open, jolting forward, gritting his teeth against the sharp pain he felt as his lungs filled with air. "What...?" he said, the word catching in the dryness of his throat.

He glanced around the room, and recognized it as the one in which he had been reunited with his traveling companions upon their arrival. He saw the wizard first, then King Bungo, and finally, lying on a divan a few feet from him, Bilbo. Thorin immediately made to sit up, ignoring the way his body protested, but Gandalf placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down with surprising strength. "I wouldn't. Not yet," he murmured.

"What happened?" Thorin demanded, sitting up despite the warning, but not moving to stand. "Is he going to be alright?"

Gandalf gave him an unreadable look. "I feel as though we should be asking you that, as Bilbo remains unconscious." Thorin winced at that, even though the tone was not accusatory. "Master Oakenshield, how long were you two outside? Your symptoms seem to suggest that you were out in the snow for a day or more."

Thorin gaped at him. "We weren't—there was a figure, we were the only ones who could see it—"

"You mean it was the two of you who noticed it?" Bungo asked, eyes on Bilbo's prone form.

"No," Thorin blurted immediately, and both Gandalf and Bungo looked at him then. "We were the only ones who could _see_ it. We didn't know what it was when we left—we thought it was a man, if I'd—if we'd known we never—I never would have—"

"Thorin," Gandalf interrupted, expression concerned. "If you had known... what?"

Thorin swallowed. "It was Black Rider," he said, and the room seemed to grow quieter. "One of the Nazgûl."

"What?" Bungo blurted incredulously, at the same moment that Gandalf asked intently, "are you certain?"

Thorin nodded gravely. Gandalf blinked slowly and opened his mouth to respond when a cough sounded from where Bilbo lay. Thorin pushed himself up and rushed to his feet, stumbling only slightly as he made to crouch at Bilbo's side. Bilbo seemed to be murmuring something under his breath, though Thorin couldn't seem to catch the words, they came seeming slurred and disjointed. Bilbo didn't wake, but his face was scrunched up as if in pain and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. Thorin glanced at the others, but stopped when he saw Gandalf's face, ashen and grave.

"Did the creature say anything?" the wizard asked.

Thorin felt a creeping uneasiness crawl up his spine. "No," he replied. "It..." He glanced at Bilbo, still muttering in that strange way... Strange words that seemed to curl around the room. "It attacked me first," he finished quietly. "Is that..."

"The Black Speech."

Thorin looked at him sharply, as did Bungo. "Do you know what he's saying?" the King asked.

Gandalf shook his head slowly, jaw tight. "I cannot quite say... I recognize the foul tongue... Something about..." his eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak, when Bilbo gasped, eyes flying open and a shout tearing from his throat.

Thorin took hold of Bilbo's hand and immediately began murmuring, "it's alright, you're alright."

Bilbo's eyes locked on his, wide and panicked. "What—" he gasped, coughed, "what—" His eyes flitted around the room. "How did—"

"I brought us inside," Thorin said, fighting to keep his tone even and calm.

Bilbo stared at him. "You... Are you alright? That—that _thing—_ "

"Bilbo," Gandalf began before Thorin could speak, his voice was almost frantic, "did the Nazgûl speak to you? I must know—"

The door to the room, one Thorin believed to lead to the dining room, opened, and in came Rose carrying a tray in shaking hands. "I brought the tea, like you asked, King Bungo, sir," she announced, though no one but Thorin and Bilbo even glanced at her. "I hope—" She looked at them. "Are you alright? I'll admit you gave me quite a fright when I saw you—I'm so glad I heard you at the door when I did—"

"My dear, thank you, they are very near well enough now," Gandalf interrupted, expression thunderous. "That will be all."

Thorin saw Rose gulp, and came to her defense. "Could your questions not _wait_ until the recipient _is_ well enough?" he growled at the wizard, while tightening his grip on Bilbo's hand.

Shadows seemed to spread as the wizard's expression darkened. "No, Master Oakenshield, it can not wait," Gandalf boomed, "because it may very well be too late!"

"Too late? What do you mean?" King Bungo interjected, taking the very questions out of Thorin's mouth, but spoken much more calmly than Thorin could ever manage.

Before Gandalf could respond, shouting was heard from down the hall, and the doors to the front foyer burst open. A ragged, wide eyed hobbit ran in, trembling and face grey, snowflakes clinging to the limp strands of his hair. "For Eru's sake! What is it?" Bungo snapped at him, the hobbit shaking harder at his words.

"Orcs, sir," the hobbit rasped through panting, panicked breaths. "Passing through the southern border. They—" the hobbit's breath hitched. "They're heading into the Shire," he breathed.

A hush fell over the room. The only sound heard was the clatter of the tea tray, crashing to the floor.


	16. We're Both On a Stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Things happen in this chapter. *~Things.~* ;) I was going to wait for the next chapter, but the moment felt right and just desperate enough. Just a tad longer than my usual. Call it an apology for the bit of a wait. Enjoy. *dances away*

"How many?" King Bungo asked. "How much time do we have?"

Thorin felt Bilbo's hand clutch tighter at his own, and he glanced away from the King to meet wide, terrified eyes.

"I-I—I'm not c-certain," the hobbit answered, leaning against the doorframe. It appeared his shaking legs wouldn't do to hold him up. "They were far off... Perhaps t-twenty of them..."

"We could hold off twenty," Thorin murmured, barely aware of the words as they left his tongue, but as soon as they did, his mind became a whir of possibilities and things began to click into place. Dwalin and Frerin could easily handle four at a time. The same for him, when he was at his full strength, however the twinge in his ribs reminded him that was not the case. Balin certainly had fight in him despite his age, and he would not be left behind just on the basis of age. And as for the others—

Well. Thorin wouldn't be surprised if they heartily volunteered.

"What?" Bilbo asked hoarsely, drawing Thorin's attention back. "No, no you can't—"

"Who else?" Thorin asked, softly but firmly. The irony of the situation hit him. "Is that not why I'm here at all?"

Bilbo winced at that, throat bobbing, and Thorin instantly regretted the phrasing, but was it not true? That was why they had come. The agreement had been to serve as the Shire's protection in exchange for crops and supplies in abundance.

"You're under no obligation," the King said, and the steadiness of his voice drew Thorin's gaze away from Bilbo's. The King's stare was almost suspicious, the line of his jaw tight. "Not yet. Our kingdoms are not yet bound."

_No. But I am obligated to one person, and one person alone._

"The Shire will not fall." Thorin glanced back at Bilbo, who was looking at him, expression searching. Thorin swallowed. "Not while we might protect it."

King Bungo stared at him, but Thorin was unwavering. Curtly, Bungo nodded, and strided over to the hobbit who had delivered the unfortunate message. "Sound the alarm bell. If everyone is not already in Bag End, they must be made aware of the danger they face."

"Something brought them here. Something must have," Bilbo murmured, face pale. He looked like he might be sick, and Thorin reached a hand out to brush the sweaty curls from his forehead, feeling the temperature as his fingers drifted. Skin still too cold, still perspiring, losing heat. He almost regretted his pledge to the King—all he wanted in that moment was to remain and make sure Bilbo recovered fully.

"Whatever brought this upon us is, for the moment, irrelevant," Gandalf muttered darkly.

"Gandalf is right," Bungo said, after sending the hobbit on his way. "Whatever their purpose, if they succeed we won't be in any state to witness it." He met Thorin's eye. "You would fight for the Shire?"

With a glance to Bilbo, still worryingly quiet, Thorin nodded. After all, if Orcs managed to breach the walls of Bag End, there might be no one left to worry after. The thought made it hard to breathe. "Without hesitation. I'm certain the others will as well."

"Good, good," Bungo murmured, eyes drifting to the door but remaining distant, as if he were trying to see the hills beyond. And what the hills brought.

"Your majesty," Thorin tried, reclaiming the hobbit's attention. "If I might have permission to take B—your son—further inside. To my room."

Bilbo's inhaled sharply at that, and Thorin glanced at him, concerned, to find an almost indignant stare. "Please," the King said after a moment, and Thorin looked back at him to see his gaze on Bilbo, before a curt nod. "Gandalf, a word," Bungo murmured, turning away.

"No, I—you can't—" Bilbo began, tugging at the sleeve of his tunic to catch his eye, "I won't let you go out alone! I'm coming with you."

Thorin gaped at his determined expression, a different fire in his eyes than the feverish one of before. "You're injured," he reasoned, almost disbelieving that he _had_ to reason.

"Hardly," Bilbo scoffed, and Thorin might have been convinced by his tone alone were it not for the whiteness of his face and the minute shivers that still wracked his frame. Thorin wasn't an expert on hobbit anatomy, but he knew dwarrows were hardier creatures. Bilbo had to have been more affected than he was letting on.

"Have you any formal training?" he murmured, sure of what the answer would be.

Bilbo's jaw clenched and his eyes drifted away for a moment. "No, but—"

"Then, no."

"I can handle myself!"

 _"No,"_ Thorin growled.

"But—"

"I will not lose you," Thorin angrily blurted and Bilbo fell silent almost immediately, the resounding quiet long enough for Thorin to process what he'd said. He swallowed. "I will not lose you to this."

Bilbo's eyes were wide. "You won't."

"Please, just—" Thorin closed his eyes. "Let me be content in the knowledge that you are out of harm's way."

He could practically feel Bilbo's stare on the side of his face. Thorin felt the unmistakable brush of an hand grasping at his own. "Okay."

Bilbo got to his feet slowly, wobbling slightly, face growing paler as he swayed. Thorin caught his arm, trying to help him balance. Bilbo mumbled a halfhearted, "I'm fine," but didn't truly protest.

"Master Oakenshield," the wizard's voice sounded, footsteps growing louder as he came near. "I shall inform the other dwarrows of our situation," he said, expression drawn. "I find in such circumstances it does not do to waste time."

Thorin nodded in acknowledgement. Gandalf's eyes flitted to Bilbo, who didn't notice, and appeared on the verge of saying something, but when Thorin narrowed his eyes slightly, he seemed to think better of it. There would be time, later, for talk of Nazgûls and the Black Speech.

Thorin barely contained a shiver as he and Bilbo walked through the beginnings of the main corridor, remembering the way those dark words had forcibly crawled out of Bilbo's mouth. There was something dark here. Something that could call Orcs and Nazgûl alike. Hand curling at the sword in his belt, his grip tightened. The knowledge that it was still in his possession, ready to be used, was not a comfort.

The loud ringing of a bell broke the quiet, its tolls persistent and steady. Thorin saw Bilbo glance up, an uneasy, troubled expression on his face. It must have been the bell to warn of danger for any unaware of it. Thorin hoped all the hobbits were safely inside—he doubted any still far from the fortified Bag End would have the time or means to seek safety there.

They came across Thorin's door, and Thorin hadn't realized until that moment how silent Bilbo had been, lost in his own thoughts. Thorin could still hear noise from the dining hall and grimaced. So many in such a small space—there would be fear, confusion, panic.

"Thorin," Bilbo murmured as soon as he'd opened the door. Thorin turned to look at him, but Bilbo was already launching forward, wrapping his arms around Thorin's midsection. "I... Just make sure you come back," Bilbo said slowly, voice breaking off at the end.

The fire in Thorin's chest, the strongest manifestation of the bond, had flared up at the contact, allowing him to forget that constant ache the Wraith had wrought. It took him a moment to process Bilbo's words, and as soon as he did he stiffened. "Bilbo," he said, putting a hand on his cheek and pressing their foreheads together. He closed his eyes, breathing in slowly. "Always."

Bilbo clutched at him harder, and Thorin's left hand naturally drifted to Bilbo's waist. He had just put the slightest pressure against Bilbo's side when he jerked away almost violently, hissing. Thorin immediately stepped back, wide eyed. "What...?"

Bilbo shook his head, trying for a smile even with his brows drawn together and a bead of sweat falling from his hair. "Nothing, I'm just—it just stings a bit?"

Thorin eyed him worriedly. "Let me see."

Bilbo nodded slowly, hands going to the hem of his shirt. He pulled it up to expose his stomach, fabric bunching up under his fingers, and Thorin clenched his jaw, teeth clacking together.

It looked like an old scar, but no scar he'd ever seen, a dark black gash and an inflamed red around its edges.

Eyes widening, Thorin stared, a dawning possibility making his mind whir and his stomach feel sick. "Thorin?" Bilbo asked, and he glanced down in the same moment. Thorin saw his own eyes widen in shock, saw shaking fingers ghost over the marred skin. "What?" Bilbo whispered after a breath, a tinge of panic creeping into his voice.

Silently, Thorin glanced down at his own chest, yanking up his tunic, and felt the air leave his lungs. A thick band of black wound around his chest, seeming to crawl in a crevice between his ribs. He couldn't seem to draw his eyes away, swallowing dryly, the click echoing in the silence. "We are marked," he murmured, unaware of the words spinning in circles in his head until he heard them voiced.

 

* * *

 

  _Twenty Years Ago_

_"Too far to the left," Thorin mumbled, barely moving his lips, not wanting to disturb the air.  
_

_Frerin huffed, but adjusted his aim, eyes narrowed and laser focused._

_"You could shoot it now," Thorin murmured, raising an eyebrow. "Save yourself the trouble."_

_Without a glance to Thorin, Frerin let loose the arrow, the tip blunt, tied to a bag of blue colored dye. Enough to bruise, perhaps even enough to break the skin, but not to kill. The arrow struck the deer on its flank, speckling its fur and the underbrush with a spray of blue, and the deer took off through the trees, struggling slightly with an almost imperceptible limp. In an instant, the blur of an animal was gone. "No trouble at all, brother dearest," Frerin grinned, pulling another arrow from his quiver. "It'll be easy to track now that I marked it. That dye won't come out for at least a week," Frerin said, waving the arrow around as he spoke._

_Thorin eyed the tip warily—a true, iron crafted and serrated edge. "Watch where you point that thing," he grumbled, pushing it away from his face with a finger._

_"Besides," Frerin continued, oblivious, scanning the coverage of trees in which the creature had disappeared. "It isn't even about killing it necessarily. Any brute can kill things. No, it's about the chase. The skill of finding it again, the knowledge that you can."_

_Thorin watched him amusedly. "As long as you don't shoot any unsuspecting dwarrows with that thing," he said, nodding his head towards the bow Frerin had borrowed from Thraín._

_Frerin looked to him, wounded. "I won't," he objected, voice and posture equally defensive._

_Thorin snorted and said nothing in reply. As much as he would have loved to watch the antics of his brother in his l first real hunt, he had promised Dwalin he'd take over his shift that afternoon. "Make sure you use all the meat when you catch it," Thorin said, turning away. He had no doubt in his brother's determination and stubbornness. He would catch the deer eventually. Frerin's doggedness was one of his best qualities._

_"You don't do this often, Thorin," Frerin called after him, and Thorin stopped, turning with a questioning glance. "I've seen you hunt while entertaining, but never on your own. Why? Don't you enjoy the rush of it?" he questioned, and Thorin scanned the flush in his face, the smile still present on his cheeks. His brother, he knew, would be a feared warrior one day. He would put his never-ending energy to use on the battlefield, a swirling blur of dangerous intent. His weakness was that he was reckless, and Thorin was determined to be the balance, his opposite._

_Thorin shrugged. "Perhaps I do not believe in prolonging the inevitable."_

 

* * *

 

 "What does that mean?" Bilbo asked, voice thin and panicked.

Thorin looked at him, tearing his eyes away from the discolored, unnerving band of flesh. What did it mean? It meant Thorin was certain the imminent Orc raid, so soon after their meeting with a Nazgûl, was not a coincidence. "The Nazgûl," Thorin rasped, "after I fell—what happened?"

Bilbo swallowed. "I... It came at me with its sword—I wasn't, he was going so fast, I couldn't—" Bilbo took a deep breath. "I thought... I thought I was dying..."

Thorin closed his eyes briefly and fought to stifle the rage and guilt bubbling up in his throat. If he had been faster, if he had been more prepared, maybe he could have—

Wraith or not, if he saw it again, he'd kill it.

"It... It did say something to me," Bilbo continued, and Thorin took a step closer in order to hear. "I don't—it was a blur, but I know it... it spoke."

"What did it say?"

Bilbo shook his head, lips pressed together. "I didn't understand it," he murmured.

"But you do remember it?" Thorin questioned.

Bilbo hesitated, mouth opening and closing. "I..."

"Bilbo, what did it tell you?" Thorin asked, wishing to stave off the ugly foreboding in his stomach.

 _"Nazg vajodhar,"_ Bilbo said quietly, and as soon as the words left his mouth the room seemed to grow darker.

The uneasy silence that followed was broken by a sudden echoing and imminent howling. Thorin tensed, instantly alert, trying to pinpoint the sound. "Wargs," he muttered. "The Orc pack is not far."

"You said we are marked," Bilbo whispered. Then, shakily, "what does that mean?"

Thorin ground his teeth, hands clenching anxiously. "It means the hunter has marked his prey and released his dogs," Thorin said, words twisting angrily. Glancing at Bilbo, at the way his hand was still protectively clutching at his tunic, fingers twisting the fabric, he felt a spike of terror.

Because the Wraith hadn't been looking at him. He hadn't been the objective, the goal.

He had been collateral.

"It means," he continued, voice low, a thin mask for the panic bubbling up in his throat and making his breaths noticeably shorter, "you are not to leave this room."

Thorin took his arm and guided him to the bed. Bilbo sat, but the look on his face was one of clear annoyance. "I am not a child."

"Believe me, I am very well aware of that," Thorin mumbled dryly, eyes on the door. The howling had been close, which meant they didn't have much time to plan or prepare. "Stay here," he murmured again, but as soon as he took a step Bilbo's hand was on his arm. It wasn't much pressure at all, barely a light touch, but it stopped him in his tracks.

Bilbo's face was drawn and worried when he said, "if what you said is right, about the... the marks, then you're in danger too."

"I'll be fine," Thorin said softly. "I promise."

Bilbo stood up abruptly. "But what if you're not? What if—what if something happens to you because of all this, because of me—"

"Bilbo," Thorin interjected firmly, turning and coming closer. "This is not your fault." The thought that Bilbo was worried for him, that he might actually _blame_ himself for everything that had happened, was almost impossible to comprehend. That need to reassure hit him suddenly, and the need to tell him that Thorin would hard-pressed to blame him for anything was already forming half thought out words in the back of his throat, pressing on his tongue.

Thorin wanted to tell him that he would be at his side no matter what happened.

"But what if—what happens if... if you don't— "

"I'll come back," Thorin murmured, reaching out a hand to trail through Bilbo's hair, pushing his bangs out of his eyes and brushing the tip of his ear.

Bilbo shivered, but his eyes were still wide and scared. "You don't know that," he whispered, and suddenly they were a hairbreadth away from each other, breaths intermingling.

"Yes, I do," Thorin intoned softly. It was all very clear in that moment. It didn't matter how many Orcs he might face; he knew, knew, he would come back because he had someone to come back to. In that moment, he didn't think of unrequited bonds or marriage or Orcs. There was only the space between them, Bilbo's breath in the air, his hair tangled between Thorin's fingertips.

Thorin slowly closed the gap, eyes fluttering closed, damning the consequences. He felt Bilbo's breath hitch, surprised, and then Thorin's lips were on his.

Bilbo's mouth was at first slack, unresisting, and Thorin felt the briefest moment of terrible uncertainty before Bilbo was kissing back, hands going to Thorin's hair and the back of his head. The warmth of Bilbo's mouth sent a pleasing shudder coursing through his spine, the smell of honey invading his senses and making his head spin.

Reluctantly, Thorin pulled away, inhaling deeply before opening his eyes. Bilbo was looking at him wide eyed, a shaky hand coming up to touch his lips. "I'll come back," Thorin murmured again, fingers drifting over the soft skin of Bilbo's cheek.

Another howl pierced the air, longer and louder than it had before. Thorin glanced up warily. "I must go." The words were more painful now than before—he wanted nothing more than to remain and feel the warmth of Bilbo's skin on his own, feel the thrum of his racing pulse under his fingertips and run his hands through Bilbo's hair. And Bilbo—Bilbo had kissed him _back_. His chest filled with an elated kind of hope, making him believe he might have _this_ —have Bilbo if Bilbo might have him.

Still, he had pledged to protect the Shire, Bilbo's home, and he was not one to break his promises. 

He told himself there would be time. The thought was freeing.

"Stay here. Where I can find you when I return," he murmured, making to turn around, but Bilbo grabbed his arm and pulled him back, his lips crashing against Thorin's.

The feeling numbed Thorin's awareness of anything but Bilbo's mouth, a pleasant haze, one that he had to blink away when Bilbo pulled back, panting into his mouth. "Be careful," Bilbo gasped, the color in his eyes almost overshadowed by the darkness of his pupils.

Thorin nodded, pressing Bilbo's forehead once more to his own, before exhaling and drawing away, hand automatically going to Deathless at his side. He was ready to fight for the happiness he'd found here, if anything else.

 

* * *

 

 "Where've you been?" Dwalin greeted him as he entered the drawing room. He was clad in the tough leather armor he never traveled without, battle axes strapped securely to his back. "We half thought you'd left without us."

Thorin clapped his shoulder. "Wouldn't have been a smart move on my part."

The clanking of metal announced his brother, eyes bright and in stark contrast to the uncharacteristic seriousness of his face. “Well, Thorin?” He gestured at the group. “Are we ready for war?”

Looking around the room, he saw all the dwarrows, wearing varying degrees of armor, some looking more anxious than others. Nori was armed with his knives, twirling them with a speed that seemed effortless. Bofur, he saw, was hefting what looked like a small war hammer, leaning against an ottoman and tapping at the metal unconsciously. The miner’s gaze was distant, worried.

Dori, Thorin knew, was not one he would need to be concerned for, armed with a hefty sword as he was. The silver haired dwarf was known for his incredible strength—he could handle himself. Bifur as well, Thorin knew, was adept at combat. He had survived Kazad-dûm after all.

Balin, he saw, was helping Ori fasten the straps of a thin chestguard. The sight made Thorin pause. He doubted Ori had much formal training in combat—Thorin could see the young dwarf’s face was slightly pale. Mahal, did he even have a weapon? “Master Ori,” he called, frowning when the dwarf jumped at his name and turned to him wide eyed. Luckily, Balin had finished tying the straps so nothing was loosened when he turned abruptly.

Thorin eyed him warily, scanning the small gaps between the pieces of his armor. “Do you have a weapon?”

Ori blinked at him, before mumbling a curt, “oh, y-yes,” and glancing around him. Almost triumphantly, he held up a small slingshot.

Thorin stared at the contraption, then at him. Before he could express his disapproval, Frerin spoke up. “He’s an excellent shot with that thing.” At Thorin dubious look, he added, “trust me. Plus, Dwalin’s got Ori’s back, isn't that right Dwalin?”

Dwalin’s murderous glance at Frerin told Thorin that much was true. Still, “be careful, Master Ori,” he told the young dwarf, who nodded grimly, mouth a tight line.

Drawing his gaze away, Thorin surveyed the room one last time. They were not all battle hardened warriors, clearly, but they were dwarrows, determined and skilled.

“I would expect you to fight for this land as surely and as bravely as if you were fighting for Erebor itself,” Thorin addressed them all.

The resounding “aye!” met his expectations. He drew his sword, the others following suit with their own weapons. Ready or not, Thorin thought, war was coming for them.

 

* * *

 

 Bilbo paced the length of Thorin’s room, anxiously running his hands through his hair. He hated being cooped up inside, hated not being able to help, but he knew Thorin was right. Though he had Sting to boast of his travels and his adventures, he hardly knew how to use it properly.

Just thinking of Thorin sent Bilbo's heart pumping wildly again. Bilbo had not hoped to think that they might be more than friends, but perhaps—

 _If nothing happens to him, you mean._  

Bilbo took a steadying breath, trying to fight the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. What might be wouldn't matter if Thorin died.

The thought was horrible, made him trip and clutch at his chest when he considered it fully. Closing his eyes, Bilbo tried to calm himself. Thorin was capable, a great warrior, had fought in battles before.

But he couldn't shake the nagging, terrible feeling in his gut that told him he was to blame, that everything was somehow connected. The Ring. The Orcs. The Nazgûl.

_Nazg vajodhar._

The words came so suddenly to his mind it was as if they were spoken aloud once more, too much like when he was staring fuzzily into the darkness inside the Rider's hood.

Bilbo grit his teeth, remembering the feeling of complete and utter helplessness when he'd seen Thorin fall. He'd screamed, then, because he had thought Thorin had been cut down by a killing blow and the first thought that came to him was that those bright blue eyes would be empty and dull.

He had been so devastated he hadn't even seen the blur of steel coming towards him until the sensation of freezing metal slid through his stomach, lacing through his nerves.

The creature had stood over him, he remembered, looking down at him with its featureless face while he silently suffered in the grass. It moved closer to him, so close he could smell a stench like death that made his eyes water.

 _Nazg vajodhar,_ it had hissed, the words carried by the wind and gone in an instant. In the next, the world had gone dark and agonizingly, unbearably cold.

If only he knew what those words had meant! Gandalf had seemed to think them important. Perhaps if he knew the translation—

Bilbo's head snapped up and he stopped in his tracks. That was it. The library. He was sure they might have something on the Black Speech in their more restricted sections. It was something, something he might do to help instead of his incessant worrying.

Bilbo made his way into the hall, clutching at his arms tightly. He walked past families with fearful faces entering various rooms along the corridor. Bag End was large enough to hold all their guests—that was indeed what it was meant for. Bilbo hated the fear that he saw everywhere he looked, wished that Bag End had never had to be used for its purpose. A stronghold.

A hiding place.

Bilbo quickened his steps, reminding himself that the dwarrows were likely fighting already, risking their lives while he wasted his time on wishing.

The library was abandoned, as Bilbo had assumed it would be. He supposed he was the only hobbit crazy enough to read books during an Orc raid. Making his way to the back, he scanned the titles, following the words as they grew more unrecognizable and more strange.

The Bagginses had acknowledged the importance of books. The Tooks had seen the importance in those that respectable hobbits would not dare read.

Bilbo stopped when his eyes caught tiny writing on a very small, poorly bound book. _Black Speech—The Language of Mordor._ He pulled the book from the shelf, letting loose a thick cloud of dust. Coughing, he waved it away, and turned his find over in his hands. It was more of a journal than a book, the only sign of writing on its cover being the words etched into its spine with shaky script. With bated breath, Bilbo opened it.

The writing, he discovered with disappointment, was completely nonsensical. Turning pages with growing frustration, he saw nothing but a gibberish mix of Common and what he assumed Black Speech. Swearing under his breath, he turned another page and blinked at what he saw. The writing was legible and comprehensible. Bilbo scanned the page with a sudden unease.

_I have decided to begin my entries in the middle of this journal. Perhaps it is to motivate myself, in a way, to continue writing. Or perhaps, it is because I find beginning with so many empty pages ahead to be a gloomy and daunting prospect._

_I head for Mordor with the intention of learning, through careful observation, the nature of the language the Orcs and goblins favor. I hope it may aid the race of men in the future, to have a knowledge of this foul tongue._

Bilbo frowned, skimmed to the bottom of the page, and turned to the next. The writing was intelligent, a detailed depiction of the man's findings. He compared this to the fevered writings of the first few pages and swallowed down a feeling of nausea. He was certain whatever the man had found in Mordor had not made for a pleasant end.

He scanned the the few translations given, growing worried he might not find what he needed as the entries grew more and more scarce. Finally, his eyes skipped over a word he recognized. _Vajodhar_. Thief.

Thief?

Breath coming faster, Bilbo searched further. One more word. One more word. He stopped. He could see the imprint of writing on the back of the page he was looking at, etched so forcefully the ink had bled through the paper and it had ripped in a few places. Eyes wide, Bilbo turned the page. The word _nazg_ was written so many times Bilbo couldn't count them. On the bottom on the page, the last entry, was the translation, written in large, shaky letters.

_Nazg vajodhar._

Ring thief.


	17. The Eye of the Hurricane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, this chapter includes some graphic violence, similar to that of the movies. Nothing too bad.
> 
> On another note, I am SO SORRY this chapter has taken so long, and that it is not nearly as long as I would have liked. Still, any content is better than no content. I hit some major writer's block, but I am back and ready for business.

The book fell from Bilbo's hands, striking the floor with a resounding bang in the silence.

Bilbo didn't hear it.

His mind whirred, a thousand possibilities and horrible realities fighting for attention. The one that continuously appeared and refused to subside was oh, oh, _oh, it's all your fault._

Bilbo felt sick, struggling to gather enough breath in his lungs and feeling lightheaded despite his best efforts. He stumbled back, painfully banging into a shelf.

The Orcs were there because the Wraith had been there because the ring—

The ring. Bilbo stopped, went very still, holding his breath even as his lungs burned. A ring of power? He had heard the lore, read the tales, but he had never considered he might come into contact with one.

One.

A creeping realization wormed its way through Bilbo's stomach and up into the vice of his throat.

The Nazgûl served Sauron in years past. But there was only one thing they were bound to; one power, one thing.

One ring.

Bilbo's hand had automatically drifted to his pocket, an unconscious need overtaking his senses. When he caught sight of the action out of the corner of his eye, bile rose up in his throat, even as he knew the ring—

Or perhaps the _Ring_ —wasn't with him.

It would make sense, wouldn't it? How it was so very distracting whenever it was in his presence, how he felt almost violently protective of it. The Ring had been lost soon after the war against Sauron. Was it so impossible it might have found its way into the Misty Mountains?

If it was truly the One Ring Bilbo had in his possession, it would explain the things he’d been seeing—the eye made of fire—and why it was so very alluring to everyone who saw it.

Perhaps he'd had the niggling suspicion all along, and refused to see the truth for what it was.

A  memory sprang to mind, of Thorin blindly grabbing at his arm, practically snarling at him, and then stumbling back, eyes wide and horrified when he realized—

Bilbo paused, taking a deep breath.

_One problem at a time._

Thorin. The other dwarrows. They were not only fighting to protect the Shire, but also a very powerful magical item capable of causing a great deal of misery, and they had no idea.

A terrible thought came to Bilbo’s mind. His fingers drifted up to the space just below his ribs, once unmarred skin tainted by a still stinging black. Thorin had been marked as well, but the Wraith had seemed to only want Bilbo. Was it because he had brought the Ring and had it in his possession? If so, the Orcs would certainly target Thorin, but not through any fault of his own.

Bilbo felt his hands begin to shake, and balled them into fists. He had to help them. Help _him._

It wasn't a question of how, but rather a question of _how soon._

He bolted out the door, his jacket snagging against the edge of a rusting handle. The hallway was thick with the scent of fear, no curious heads popping out of doors, lamps dim and uncared for. This was not a Shire he was familiar with, and he swallowed around the lump in his throat, the clawing and ever growing guilt that whispered at him.

Against his will, his pace slowed as he neared the door of his room. Bilbo came to a stop, rigid and tense, but for the moment, unable to pull away.

It was like trying to resist turning his head at the call of his name.

 _It could be useful,_ a traitorous corner of his mind whispered. _Invisibility. The only weapon you’ll have against scores of bloodthirsty Orcs._

The worst thing was Bilbo actually considered it for a moment. Then, he shook his head violently, gritting his teeth and sending a glare at his door as if the action would somehow shut the voice up. Delivering the very item the Orcs were fighting to find, yes, very smart move, you absolute _dunderhead_. Though, the absurdity of that reminded him of a certain necessity.

One that lied beyond the wood of his door, within the darkness of his room.

Bilbo let out a groan of frustration, exhaling roughly and puffing out his cheeks. Pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, he paced a few feet forward and back again. Strange, that he was more worried about a trinket in his room than facing down the blades of Orcs.

The handle was cold under his fingertips, the frigid air of the room even more so. He breathed out and the air seemed to hang in front of him for a moment, mocking. Bilbo remembered exactly where he had thrown the accursed thing, hadn’t touched it or been inside the room since. He carefully avoided looking in that direction.

Instead, he set his eyes on the object of his search. Sting, a sight for sore eyes, hanging on his wall where he left it, a commemoration of time and adventures come and gone. He stumbled forward, hands fumbling with the clasps that held it in place, breaths coming faster with the urge to leave as fast as possible.

Finally, the sword came loose and clutching it hard, he whirled around, wincing and shutting his eyes as a wave of inexplicable heat hit his face, the scent of soot and smoke thick. He coughed, managing to slip Sting out of its sheath blindly, holding it in front of him as he blinked grit and tears from his eyes. Squinting, he could just barely see the glowing blue tint to the blade.

He bit back a gasp when he saw barren, dark land sprawling in front of him, an ash grey sky shot through with red. Bilbo glanced around, wide eyed. How had he gotten there—when had— _how?_ The stifling air made it difficult to think, difficult to breathe. His eyes picked out a part of the horizon that did not match the rest, and unwillingly he let out a whimper. He was sure it was the Wraith, swathed in black and somehow pulling in the darkness around him. Behind the creature, a spiraling tower, a great mountain spitting fire. Bilbo took a shaky step back, terror caught in his throat. The words followed him, blown over a stifling wave of heat and smoke, ripping through the air and piercing his skin like daggers. _Nazg vajodhar._

Bilbo whirled around, intent on running, but his surroundings blurred immediately back to the familiar walls of his room as soon as he turned. He glanced around wide eyed, panting, the air welcome to his lungs. His gaze seemed to snag on the corner of the room shrouded in darkness, broken by the slightest glint of metal in the lamplight. The sound of laughter, barely audible, curled around the room.

Bilbo stumbled backwards, yanking the door shut as he went. The laughter cut off when the door slammed. He leaned against it, using his shirtsleeve to wipe away sweat from his forehead. For a moment, he merely breathed. Then, the silence was broken by the sound of howling, and Bilbo pushed away from the door and toward the haunting howls in the oppressive quiet.

 

* * *

 

It hadn’t been hard to find them.

Only three rode atop Wargs, the others, likely more lowly in the ranks, traversed on foot.

Thorin counted them unconsciously, reflexes long unused taking over without prompting. He counted seventeen immediately threats, not counting their Wargs. They had already set fire to some of the furthest smials, the smoke twisting in the wind, the sight made Thorin's blood boil.

Frerin marched beside him, and glancing over Thorin could see uncharacteristic fury poorly hidden on his features.

One of the Wargs reared its head up, sniffing at the air, and turned on them, snarling. The Orc atop it barked a harsh order behind him, and in an instant their presence was known. It made no difference to Thorin. He would slice through their hides with his steel whether they saw him or not.

"Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!" he bellowed, the rush of battle almost making him deaf to the answering cries.

The Warg bounded toward him, his rider raising a spear, but Thorin slid underneath monstrous swiping paws and drove Deathless into the underbelly, ripping the blade out and letting its momentum pull him from the Warg's last struggles. The Orc had held onto his spear, but his leg was crushed under the body of the Warg.

Thorin dodged a pitiful jab and, scowling into the unrepenting, glazed eyes of the Orc, he sliced his sword downwards and watched the head roll, and settle.

_Thror's head, rolling across blood and sand and bodies, sightless, mouth agape in surprise forever—_

Thorin inhaled sharply, his vision clearing, and ducked, narrowly missing being decapitated himself. He met the next blow from another Orc cleanly, outwardly his expression hard as stone, but on the inside he was slowly being consumed by panic. Distraction on the battlefield meant death, and he couldn't afford to be accosted by any more flashbacks. Not if he wanted to see another day.

The Orc was dead in moments, and Thorin was able to assess the progress of the others for a few precious seconds before he was drawn back into the thick of the fighting.

No injuries, no one on the ground. Only the bodies of Orcs. Thorin breathed easier knowing his kin were, for the moment, unharmed.

They were holding their own.

He allowed himself to see a victory in future, the movements of combat coming so naturally to him that he was virtually free to do so.

The air was thick with smoke, but the fires were dying out, and the number of enemies Thorin could see were dwindling.

Then, the smoke in the distance cleared, and for the briefest second, Thorin saw a familiar figure atop a white Warg on a hill overlooking the Shire. Saw a jagged expanse of teeth in a snarl before it was swallowed by a black cloud.

The world around Thorin slowed, muted and grey. His lungs burned and the chaotic movement around him blurred—he realized he wasn't breathing but that didn't seem to be so important when—

_His grandfather's headless body crushed under the force of a swinging mace, tossed almost carelessly, digging into the flesh and dragging the corpse along for what seemed like a lifetime—_

He came back to himself and gasped in a breath, staggering backward, sound flooding his ears leaving them ringing violently. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blur of a figure bearing down on him, and he was just aware enough to block a blow from a serrated blade, the sound of the steel meeting like thunder, sending sparks into the air. He pushed the blade to the side, but the edge caught on his arm, and Thorin hissed, instinctively twisting away.

Turned awkwardly, clutching his arm, he was unable to regain his footing when the Orc used his shield to bash into his shoulder.

The force of the blow sent him to the ground, the impact knocking whatever breath he had left from his lungs. The Orc, grey, splashes of his blood across its face, stared down at him dispassionately for a beat. Thorin grasped blindly for his sword, fingers catching only dirt and loose grass. His vision was spotty, graying at the edges, and his senses bombarded him with sounds and flashes he knew weren't real, but they were things he couldn't fight, not when he was gasping for air. The yelling of those around him turned to moans and cries of thousands of soldiers, the sky muddled with smoke turned blackened and charred.

Wrenching his eyes shut against the onslaught, he didn't see the Orc raise its sword.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo raced across the fields of the Shire, following the scent of smoke and the clash of metal. He could see the figures of the dwarrows, and he frantically searched each face, counting. Dwalin, Balin, Dori. Frerin and Ori. Bifur, Bofur, Nori.

He was so close now he could smell the thick scent of cloying blood in the air and he gagged, gripping Sting tighter. Where was Thorin? A spike of panic crawled up his throat and lodged itself there, making it difficult to breathe.

Desperate, he scanned the field again, eyes pausing on each prone form on the ground, moments of dread and relief mingled again and again. His heart plummeted when he saw a familiar sprawl of long, dark hair, the dark blue tunic peeking out from under a breastplate.

As well as the figure standing over him, sword poised in the air, ready to strike.

"Thorin!" he cried, unable to hold back. Bilbo didn't think, sprinting the rest of the way, faster than he could ever remember moving, and throwing himself at the Orc in a mindless tackle.

He had the upper hand for a moment, the fall knocking the wind out of his enemy. Bilbo took Sting and slashed at any open skin he found, but the Orc was heavily armored and Bilbo didn't have the strength or the leverage to drive all the way through. He managed to slice through a tendon at the side of its neck, but with a screech it swept the butt of its sword, catching Bilbo in the side of his head, sending him reeling to one side, clutching at the burst of pain just above his eye.

Bilbo blinked past a slow trickle of blood, the pounding of his head, and through the haze he saw the Orc draw a knife, but he couldn't seem to make his limbs move out of the way. The Orc shifted slightly, and—

There. A crack in the armor. Sting still in his hand, Bilbo lunged forward, channeling the rest of his strength into the action. The blade ran through, piercing through skin and muscle, the blue glow pulsing once through the skin, then flickering out. The body slid to the side, and Bilbo lay panting, eyes wide.

He stared at the creature's body, incomprehensible, until realization hit him.

They'd won. There were no more.

"Thorin," he gasped, sitting up, gaze finding the dwarf lying in the grass, eyes glazed and shaking. Bilbo could have cried in relief. Alive, at the very least.

Bilbo rushed to his side, ignoring the way the world went grey for a moment. "Hey, hey," he murmured, trailing a hand through Thorin's hair, brushing it away from his face. "Thorin," he fought to keep his voice from quivering. "Thorin, please look at me."

Sluggishly, Thorin's eyes focused on Bilbo's face. "There, there you are," Bilbo said gently, unable to hold back a smile.

Thorin's brow furrowed. "Bilbo?" His voice was rough, as if he hadn't spoken in years. "What—what are you—" His gaze became sharp. "You're bleeding."

Bilbo reached a hand up to his head. "What, this?" he said flippantly. "Just a scratch."

 _"Bilbo? "_ he heard an incredulous voice call.

Looking up, he saw Frerin staring, sagged against the grassy wall of a smial and leaning on his sword as a sort of crutch. Bilbo saw the others look over as well, disbelief on their features, and he spared a silent thanks to the gods that he could see _all_ of them, some more banged up than others, but wonderfully alive.

Dwalin was eyeing Thorin, and expression of drawn worry buried beneath a thin, stony mask. The large dwarf stood supporting Ori with one arm, the younger standing gingerly, putting most of his weight on one foot. Bilbo would have been worried had Ori not been staring up at Dwalin with a goofy half-smile on his face.

To Dwalin, Bilbo nodded, hoping to convey that Thorin was alright, and he seemed to accept it. It also helped that Thorin was already making to sit up, though Bilbo balked at the anger on his face.

"You are hurt," Thorin growled, reaching a hand out, but drawing it back with a hiss, glancing down at the appendage as if it had offended him.

Bilbo swallowed when he saw the fabric of Thorin's shirt drenched with blood. "Hardly. And you more than I, it seems," he tsked, leaning closer to try to see the extent of the damage. Thorin didn't seem to think much of it, but dwarrows, as he knew firsthand, were stubborn creatures.

Thorin brushed Bilbo's hands aside, expression incredulous. "You could have been killed!"

Bilbo blinked, then crossed his arms and huffed. "I seem to recall it was you who needed saving."

Thorin opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly, staring into Bilbo's face, eyes wide. Immediately, Bilbo felt his mild irritation drain away. Thorin's fingers trailed along the cut over his eye, barely touching, but it stung all the same. Bilbo winced, and Thorin looked pained. "You could have been killed," he murmured.

Bilbo swallowed hard. "I..." He breathed out, feeling suddenly defensive. He wasn't made of glass for goodness sake!  "Well... So could you have been! I couldn't just leave you here! Not when I could help! I mean really..." Thorin stared at him as if seeing him anew, expression almost comically confused, and Bilbo trailed off nervously.

"You saved my life," Thorin breathed.

"Yes," Bilbo blurted after a moment. "I mean, of course I did—I mean I am rather fond of it—" Bilbo winced, cutting himself off before he could ramble any longer.

Thorin was worryingly quiet, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Just as Bilbo was about to break the silence, he murmured, "you are the most impossibly brave creature I have ever known."

Bilbo gaped at him. "I'm not..." He let out a breathless laugh. "Perhaps you're the one with a concussion."

Thorin eyed his head with a concerned expression. "I still wish you would not have placed yourself in danger."

"Yes, well," Bilbo shrugged. "Bloodthirsty Orcs. What can you do."

To Bilbo's confusion, his words seemed to inspire some realization in the dwarf. Thorin's gaze immediately flicked to something beyond, eyes again too wide, face too pale.

Despite Bilbo's shocked protest, Thorin lurched to his feet almost violently, eyes scanning, breaths coming short. "It was him."

Bilbo stared up at him, lost. "Who?'

Ignoring him, Thorin swept up his sword, completely oblivious to his wound or anything else, it seemed. "Hey!" Bilbo tried again, scrambling to his feet, gritting his teeth against the dizziness, and placing himself in front of Thorin. "What are you doing? They're gone, they're all gone," he murmured, trying for placating, but Thorin's expression when he finally focused on him was something so close to disgust that Bilbo stopped breathing for a moment.

"I am not a  _dwarfling,_ I  _know_ what I saw," he growled, stalking past. 

"Thorin, you're bleeding," he called after him, growing more anxious, but still Thorin moved like one possessed. _"I_ _'m_ bleeding," he blurted, and that garnered a reaction, Thorin halting in his tracks and stiffening. "Please. We have to get back."

Bilbo glanced behind him. The others had stayed behind, many eyes watching them curiously. Frerin in particular watched Thorin warily, eyes tired in the moonlight. 

"I don't know what you saw, Thorin, but certainly it is safe now."

He moved forward and slipped a hand into Thorin's, taking comfort in the way Thorin slowly returned the action, a familiar weight in his hand. "No," Thorin muttered, and the word, and its  _emptiness,_ sent Bilbo's heart plummeting again. "Not if he lives."

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin didn't protest when Bilbo gently guided him back through town, to the safety of Bag End. The group was quiet, tired bodies clanking against armor. Bilbo didn't miss the way Frerin watched his brother, the concern on his face doing nothing to help Bilbo's own nerves.

He didn't know what or who Thorin had seen, if it was there at all. But he knew one thing.

The Shire still was not safe. Not while the thing he had brought within its borders remained. 

**Author's Note:**

> Addâd- Father  
> men azaghâl- my warrior/little warrior  
> men namadinùdoy- my sister's sons


End file.
